We're Not a Couple!
by Roxanne15927
Summary: A series of oneshots about Sherlock and John in awkward situations. Friendship, no slash, despite the incriminating title. Fluffiness abounds!
1. An Impromptu Experiment

**Author's Note: I would first like to make it perfectly clear that I do not ship or approve of Johnlock. These stories are not meant to be slash in any way, shape or form. But I do like stories where people assume they're gay or it looks like they are. It makes me giggle.  
Enjoy!**

An Impromptu Experiment

"Honestly, John, our lips didn't even touch! You are being childish!" Sherlock's voice came from outside the bathroom door.

John slammed open the door and faced Sherlock. "Me?" John spluttered, spewing toothpaste. "You-you kissed me! You _kissed_ me, Sherlock!"

"It wasn't a kiss, it was a stage kiss. You don't need to get so worked up about it."

"I. Don't. Care! It was close enough!" He yelled, and then slammed the door shut once again. John spat the toothpaste into the basin and rinsed. Immediately he squeezed some more toothpaste onto his toothbrush and started brushing his lips almost viciously, as if doing so would scrub away the memory.

"It was an experiment!" Sherlock protested.

"An experiment you chose to test in front of all of Scotland Yard and a suspect! If you had to do it at all, why did you have to do it in public?" John shuddered at the memory, heat rising in his cheeks. He had never been more embarrassed in all his life! He spat and rinsed again.

"I had to see if it could be done under pressure in front of many people; also to see if I could do it at all. You never know if it could be useful on a case." Sherlock said with maddening superiority.

"So why didn't you bloody practice on Lestrade or Anderson, or _anyone else_!" John shouted.

"It had to be you, John, because you are the one that comes with me on cases. Besides, Lestrade would have probably arrested me if I tried it on him. Come to think of it," he said sarcastically, "you didn't handle it very well yourself."

"Well, you should consider yourself lucky a punch is the _only_ thing you got." John hissed.

Sherlock humphed, and John smiled in spite of himself, seeing in his mind's eye the bruise that was already forming on his flatmate's eye. "Where is the mouthwash?" He demanded to know. He said this mostly to inform Sherlock just how horrified, and frankly, disgusted he was (never in his life had he ever wanted to be that close to kissing a man, and the fact that it was Sherlock made it worse. It was rather like almost kissing a brother).

"Really, you're being ridiculous. Get out of there!"

"No. I might punch you again." John replied grumpily. He didn't know how long it would be before he could look at Sherlock again. John would never live this down. He had trouble enough convincing people he was straight at the best of times, and now...now it would be nearly impossible.

He should have seen it coming.

The moment he had seen that Look on Sherlock's face, that one he always had before doing something crazy or humiliating (to John), he had known something bad was going to happen, but he didn't move because he did not imagine the crazy, humiliating thing Sherlock was going to perform was going to be on _him_.

By the time he did realize it, though, it was far too late to run.

All in all, John knew it could have been much worse, but standing there with Sherlock's lips dangerously close to his, he had wished that somebody, _anybody_, would have shot him dead.

He didn't know if anyone was able to tell it was a stage kiss, he had been too angry and shocked to think about anything else but giving his insufferable flatmate a piece of his mind. He had punched Sherlock and stalked off, everyone wolf whistling and cat calling after him. It didn't help matters that Sherlock had chased after him, resulting in more laughter and jeers from the crowd of officers.

"Oh, John, wait for me!"

"Kiss me again you fool!"

"I _looove_ you, John!"

"Take me now!"

It had been a very awkward ride home. John had tried to take a separate taxi, but Sherlock, never knowing when to stop, had followed him into the car.

"John-"

"Shut up."

"You-"

"Shut. Up."

Sherlock had wisely shut his mouth, and the rest of the ride was spent in silence. The driver had given him a sort of sympathetic look when John had paid him, making John want to punch him as well, and he had stomped up to their flat and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Nope. John was never going out into public again. Not with Sherlock, anyways.

Sherlock grew bored of trying to coax John out, and went off to work on who knows what. Maybe he was going to go try kissing the neighbors next. After awhile though, John became tired of sulking in the bathroom like a 14 year old girl, and he emerged somewhat warily.

Sherlock was gone.

John couldn't lie and say he wasn't a bit relieved. He went into the kitchen and set about making some tea. He even made some for Sherlock, that tosser, and only moments after he finished, the front door opened, and Sherlock bustled in.

"Milk," he said shortly, setting the gallon on the counter.

John was flabbergasted. "Well-I-thanks, Sherlock!" John said, hardly able to keep the amazement out of his voice.

"Mm," Sherlock responded, waving it away. He plopped onto the couch, muttering something about "stupid people" and "grocery".

John would have left it at that, though he was actually touched by Sherlock trying in his own way to apologize, he was still a little sore about the "experiment", and apologies and other human things like this did make the detective quite uncomfortable.

"Are you trying to apologize, Sherlock?"

"Yes. No. No, I am not apologizing for the experiment. But-"

"But?" John prompted.

"I suppose I-I suppose I am trying to-" Sherlock grimaced- "_apologize_ for not explaining-"

"No-"

"Fine! For somehow embarrassing you by performing a simple experiment," He finished in a rush. He sighed in relief and turned away from John.

"Apology accepted," John said with a little too much glee. He moved to pick up his and Sherlock's teacups.

"Though I am rather offended you don't want to kiss me, John."

John whirled around, eyes wide, to see Sherlock grinning up at him, the way he did when he knew he had told a good joke.

"Well. I was going to give you this tea, but I believe I have changed my mind," John said calmly, turning around.

"John!"

"Nope. No tea for you."

John dodged the pillow Sherlock threw at him, laughing. "I think we both know who wants to kiss who. I mean, you are the one who made the first move-" John sidestepped another pillow. "-and you did seem especially eager-" A third- "really, Sherlock, I am just making a deduction based on my observations."

Sherlock, now out of pillows, huffed and sat back down. "Well, at least I've taught you something."

John chuckled to himself and walked over to Sherlock. "Here," he said, handing the teacup to Sherlock.

"Thank you," Sherlock said stiffly.

John settled into his armchair with his tea, taking his laptop from the table and opening it up. They sat in silence for a minute, then looked at each other. Suddenly, they both burst into peals of laughter, but neither of them quite knew at what exactly, perhaps just the absurdity of the entire situation or at the release of the awkwardness that it had created, but it didn't really matter.

As their boisterous laughter eventually turned into breathless chuckles, Sherlock's phone went off.

"Text," John said. He reached for the phone.

_Need you two here now._  
_And please, no more snogging at my crime scene. If you can't control the PDA, don't come._  
_-Lestrade  
_  
John groaned.

"Text for you." He threw the phone a bit harder than necessary at Sherlock.

Sherlock read the text message, and smirked. "Think you can control your 'public displays of affection'?"

"Only if you can."


	2. Who Da Man?

Who Da Man?

"Have you ever noticed, that in gay relationships, one person takes the role of the man, and the other a girl?" John said nonchalantly, looking at a gay tabloid that Sherlock had brought home. Apparently the ink in the pages of the tabloid proved that some man was guilty, but honestly, John hadn't paid that much attention. He had been working at the surgery the last two days, and had not been able to go with Sherlock on his latest case, so he didn't quite know all the details. John had been cleaning the living room, throwing away any clutter he could, when he came upon the magazine.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up from his microscope to settle on John. "What?"

John walked to Sherlock, and tossed the magazine on the table. He stabbed a finger at the front cover, which featured two men, holding hands as they were walking down the street. "See, the one on the left is dressed in more feminine clothes, skinny, and short, he's the girl, see? And the other one is more muscular, and wearing more masculine clothes."

Sherlock examined the cover, then turned his attention back to his microscope. "That's only one example. Hardly enough to build a solid hypothesis."

John huffed. "Sherlock, this magazine is full of examples!" He opened up the magazine to another picture. "This one is the girl, this is the guy." He flipped to the next page. "Guy. Girl." He said, and continued to identify each girl and guy in the couples on each page, very loudly, until an exasperated Sherlock said, "Fine, fine!"

John smiled triumphantly.

Sherlock studied the magazine for a moment, then looked up at John. "So who would be the girl in our relationship, you or me?" Sherlock said, smirking.

The smile disappeared off of John's face as he started to splutter and turn a light shade of red. "We aren't _in_ a relationship, Sherlock!"

"Not romantically, no, but technically, we are in a relationship." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John huffed again. "But it's not the same thing!"

"Alright fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Hypothetically_, if we were in a romantic relationship, who would be the girl, you or me?"

John straightened up, army posture in place. "You, obviously."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please, I am definitely the man. You are shorter and smaller than me."

John's face flushed. "You're the one with all the fancy clothes."

Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "And you do all the cooking, the shopping-"

"You curl your hair!" John tried to cut him off, obviously annoyed, his fists clenching and unclenching.

Sherlock's face was full of uncontrollable glee. "-the cleaning, you always make sure I'm eating, and sleeping enough-"

"I was in the Army!" John was now leaning onto the table, his face inches away from Sherlock's face. John's jaw was twitching. Sherlock was one step away from a full grin, obviously enjoying irritating John.

"Let's prove it, then. Who is the more 'manly man', you or me?" Sherlock said, a look in his eyes, a look that John knew all too well. The look that meant, 'run as fast as you can because I am about to do something extremely reckless.' But John was too riled up to care.

"Prove it? Fine!" John cleared a space in the front area, then dropped down to the floor. "Push ups then."

Sherlock sighed, but there was a glint of excitement in his eye; he was determined to prove he was the more masculine. He unbuttoned his jacket, and laid it carefully on his armchair. He dropped down to the floor next to John.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" John mocked.

"Let's get on with it, John, really." Sherlock grinned.

"Your funeral." John said. "Ready? 3,2,1, _go_!"

###

A couple of hours later, Lestrade knocked on the door to 221B Baker Street. He needed the evidence that Sherlock had withheld from him, as usual. Lestrade had asked Sherlock to bring it to the Yard, but Sherlock, being the stubborn git he was, insisted he couldn't come, and that Lestrade would just have to come get it himself.

Lestrade knocked again. Silence. He sighed. He waited for a minute, and knocked again. No answer. He started to pound on the door. "Sherlock! I know you're in there, you arrogant sod!"

Suddenly, he heard a loud crash coming from inside 221B. "What in the bloody h-" Lestrade tried to open the door, and it swung open with ease. He stepped inside, and walked up the stairs, listening. He froze when he heard Sherlock panting and gasping, and John's voice saying something unintelligible over and over while also breathing very heavily. A low moan emitted from inside 221B, followed by the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Lestrade shuddered, and started to back quickly down the stairs, when he heard Sherlock's voice.

"Ha!" Some more panting. "See, I am obviously-" Lestrade heard Sherlock gasp for breath. "Superior in hand stands as well!"

"Superior?!" John shrieked. "I've won most of the contests-" John gulped for air. "You dolt!"

Lestrade climbed back up the stairs, and slowly opened the door to reveal Sherlock and John, faces inches apart. John was shirtless, his jumper crumpled in the corner. Sherlock was still wearing his silk purple shirt though it was completely unbuttoned. Both men were drenched with sweat, the flat was completely torn apart, and it stunk of sweat and gunpowder.

"Oh, shut up, you know full well I'm winning. Concede defeat, Dr. Watson!" Sherlock yelled.

"Never!"

Lestrade gaped. "What are you two _doing_?"

Sherlock and John glanced at Lestrade, both looking irritated.

_"I _was just proving to John who the real man is," Sherlock said snidely, smiling condescendingly at his flatmate, earning Sherlock a well placed elbow in the ribs.

"The real man in _what_?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Our relationship, obviously," Sherlock snapped, sounding very annoyed that Lestrade was not keeping up.

"Your relationship-ohhhkay. I don't even want to know." Lestrade said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I'm going to need that evidence you promised me."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Where did we put that magazine anyway, John?" He said, moving into the heart of the mess, throwing about random objects.

"We used it as a target for our spitting contest," John replied airily, collapsing into his armchair.

Lestrade groaned.

"Ah! Yes, so we did. Here it is." Sherlock said, triumphantly holding up the now damaged magazine.

"Sherlock! How in the devil am I supposed to get any evidence from that?" Lestrade protested as the detective handed him the magazine, holding it as he would a piece of rubbish.

"Oh please. The evidence is still salvageable."

"Barely." Lestrade commented, looking over the tabloid with disgust. "Well, I suppose I have to go and see what I can get from _this_." He turned to leave.

"Wait, Lestrade," John called.

Lestrade turned around warily. "Yes?"

"Who do _you_ think is the man?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, we would love to hear your opinion."

Lestrade just stared at them, both the doctor and the detective smiling eagerly up at him.

"I will not dignify that with a response," Lestrade replied simply, pressing a hand to his forehead. _Honestly. I work with children! _

John gasped. "I know! Let's see which one of us can carry Lestrade to Tesco's and back without stopping."

"Oh no, you don't," Lestrade said, backing away rapidly.

"Good idea, John," Sherlock said, eyeing Lestrade as if he was his prey.

Lestrade laughed nervously. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Never been more serious in my life," Sherlock replied.

John had risen from his armchair, fixing Lestrade with a look that precisely mirrored Sherlock's.

Lestrade backed up against the door, feeling for the doorknob as the two advanced on him.

He had never run so fast in his life.

**Author's Note: We all know who the man is in the relationship, don't we? ;) Let me know what you think! I love hearing your feedback. And if you would be so kind, please check out my other stories as well! **


	3. Can't Get You Out of My Head

**Author's Note: This story was inspired by a real song called One Love, by the ever adorable Martin Freeman. As if I didn't already have enough reasons to love him. If you want to check it out, search for it on Youtube. **

**The song is so ridiculously cheesy but quite cute.**

**Enjoy!**

Can't Get You Out of My Head

_"One looks for happiness, one longs to find a partner. One knows that nowadays, one love would be the answer..."_

John put his hands over his ears. Mrs. Hudson had played the song about five times now, and she didn't seem to be wanting to stop anytime soon.

He wanted to be annoyed.

Really, he did.

It was just...the song was so catchy. John had found himself tapping his foot to the beat the second time the song played, and humming along by the third. Now on the fifth time, John was trying to convince himself he didn't like it.

_It's ridiculous and cheesy_, he told himself. _Stop trying to sing it. Stop it now. _But of course, it made no difference.

It was really quite lucky that Sherlock wasn't home.

He had been called off to a case in Cardiff, (while John was at the surgery, and by the time he had found out Sherlock was leaving, it was too late to make arrangements for him to go as well) and was expected to be gone for three days. It was the first day of Sherlock's absence, and John was stuck at home. The surgery didn't need him, it was slow there lately and they had more than enough doctors for the day, and so here he was.

Before Sherlock, it was actually nice to get a day off, to relax at home for awhile, but ever since he moved in, he had been used to a high level of excitement and activity at almost all times. Now, a day off was like torture.

So how was he supposed to resist this one, however annoying piece of entertainment?

"One sees a crazy world, one needs a fresh perspective. One comes to realize, one love's a true objective..." John realized he was singing aloud, and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

It was too late.

He liked the song, and now there was no going back.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to stop listening to the song, causing an embarrassing swell of what might have been panic. John went down to Mrs. Hudson's flat and asked her if he could just borrow her stereo for awhile. Mrs. Hudson, gracious as always, happily let him take it.

He brought it back up to the flat, plugged it in, and resumed listening to the song.

"One seeks to find a perfect verb, one learns to tell the difference. One finds in consequence, one love is all that makes sense..."

John felt no shame now as he sang the words he did know as he went about cleaning the flat, adding his own little dance moves as he went. It wasn't too long before he had every word memorized, and he was singing it everywhere he went, even after Mrs. Hudson made him turn it off after the seventh time.

He sang it while making lunch, he sang it during his telly time, under his breath while reading, during posting an update to his blog, during dinner, and all the way to bed.

John awoke the next morning with no thoughts of the song until he got into the shower. No one was home but him, so he unabashedly sang the song throughout the whole shower.

"One love, and only one, one love to last forever, one love, only one love..."

He played the song on the stereo again about mid afternoon, singing and dancing around the flat to the music.

"John?"

John cut off mid note, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sound of his flatmate's voice.

"Sherlock!" John said, his face turning tomato red. "You weren't supposed to be back until _tomorrow_..."

"_One love, only one love to last forever,_" the music crooned on behind him. He shut it off immediately, ducking his head like a child who had been caught doing something naughty.

He risked a glance at Sherlock, who had the most absurd grin on his face.

"The case was far too simple. I solved it quickly, so the trip was cut a day short," Sherlock replied, obviously trying not to laugh.

John couldn't bring himself to reply. He just stared back at Sherlock, who still had that stupid grin on his face.

For a few moments, there was an awkward silence, the two watching each other carefully.

"Shut up!" John snapped suddenly, walking off.

"I didn't say anything. Really, don't stop on _my_ account," Sherlock called after him. He turned the stereo back on. "Come on, John!"

John whirled around. "I said, shut up!"

Sherlock proceeded to imitate some of John's earlier dance moves, humming loudly. "Oh come now, don't be embarrassed," Sherlock shouted after John, who was even more red faced than before, and making a hasty exit. "Do come sing some more, I was rather enjoying the show!"

"No!"

"Yes!" Sherlock said in a singsong way, following after him. "You can't hide your talents from me forever!" Finally unable to hold back any longer, Sherlock began to laugh, and John cursed himself for ever letting Mrs. Hudson play that blasted song.

###

Sherlock was still chuckling to himself at random times hours later at the memory of seeing his usually sensible flatmate dancing around the flat. John, who was still completely mortified, had taken off about twenty minutes after the incident, muttering something about "needing some air".

He still had not come back.

Bored.

Sherlock looked at the stereo sitting on the table where John had left it.

Hmmm...

It wouldn't be too much harm to see what all the fuss was about. He pressed play.

_"One tries to draw a line, one draws a swift conclusion, one tells oneself in life, one love is the solution..."_

Sherlock scoffed. Of course the whole song was about 'love'. In fact, the song used the word 'love' far too many times for his taste; in fact, it was a bit nauseating.

But still-

He realized that he had been tapping along to the beat with his hand just as the song finished.

No. No, no, no, he was _not_ going to be so idiotic as to-

It wouldn't hurt to listen it again.

Just to collect some more data.

He did want to know how this song had turned his flatmate into a silly teenaged girl, after all.

_"One looks for happiness, one longs to find a partner..."_

_###  
_  
Sherlock turned the stereo off the moment he heard the footsteps on the stairs, and sat back down at his microscope, staring intently into it as to make it appear he had been experimenting the entire time. Unlike John, he knew how to get rid of the evidence.

The door opened and John stepped inside. He made a point of not looking at Sherlock and headed straight for his room.

"John."

The doctor froze, and turned around slowly, his ears already pink. "Yes?" He said uncertainly.

"I trust you went to the grocery?" Sherlock asked, a perfect picture of innocence.

John sighed, his expression a mixture of relief and irritation.

"No, of course not. I just went yesterday, no point in going again today."

"I suppose not." Sherlock replied.

"I'm going to bed. Good night." John said after a few moments of silence.

"Night."

After John had left, Sherlock began the experiment he had previously been faking and was rather enjoying himself.

"One tries to draw a line, one draws a swift conclusion, one tells oneself in life, one love is the solution..." Sherlock caught himself singing aloud.

Oh no.

What had he done?

###

The next morning was a bit awkward. John was trying to pretend that the incident the day before had never happened, and Sherlock was trying to pretend he had never started listening to that song.

The two unconsciously avoided each other that morning until they got a text from Lestrade about a crime scene downtown. Sherlock and John had practically raced each other out of the door, both desperately wanting a distraction.

Lestrade didn't seem to care how overly eager they were, but the other officers noticed as the two pushed their way through to the body, a middle aged woman who had been strangled.

Once Sherlock began looking over the body, he felt immediately calmer. John, however, was refusing to meet anyone's gaze, almost as if he feared that if they looked too close they would know his secret.

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his examinations he didn't even notice that he was singing under his breath.

"Sherlock?" John piped up, interrupting his thoughts.

"What?"

"Are-are you _singing_?

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at John, who was staring at him in disbelief and amusement.

He closed his eyes. He should have never listened to that song! Why did he always feel the need to experiment on _everything_?

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous."

"You were singing the words 'one love' under your breath," John said. A broad smile was spreading across his face.

"If you are inferring that I was singing that song, I can assure you-"

"_I _didn't say anything about the song," John said, feigning innocence. He knew! Heaven help him, John _knew_.

"I wasn't singing, I was observing. I was saying 'one love'...er. One lover...plus one." He cleared his throat in what was almost a nervous manner. "The woman had two lovers, obviously."

"Uh-huh," said John, folding his arms. "One lover plus one."

"Yes, John!" Sherlock said irritably. "Now shut up, I need to think."

"Okay," John said smugly. "You shouldn't have to stop on _my_ account. Go on, Sherlock, I am rather enjoying the show."  
Sherlock glowered at John, and John only smiled back, looking very pleased with himself.

"What are you on about?" Lestrade asked. "What song?"

"Nothing!" The two said at once. As much as John wanted to tell the whole world about Sherlock singing, he knew he could not do it without revealing that he had liked it as well, and of course, Sherlock couldn't explain without admitting that he had been singing the song.

Within minutes, Sherlock had given the Yard all they needed to know and were on their way home, much to Sherlock's dismay. Why today for a boring case? This was barely a 6, not very satisfying and not quite the distraction he had wanted.

Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat a few minutes after they got home. "I was just wondering if you were done with my stereo, boys," she said.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson, thank you for letting us use it." John said, gesturing to the table.

"No thank you. You boys are both lovely singers. I think I was more entertained than you were!"

John's ears turned pink. "Yes, thank you, here you are," John said, flustered, handing the stereo to her.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock added for good measure, directing her towards the door.

"Oh, you recorded something!" Mrs. Hudson noticed. She pressed play.

"What? I didn't record anything-" Sherlock protested.

"One tries to draw a line, one draws a swift conclusion, one tells oneself in life, one love is the solution..." Sherlock's voice came through the speakers loudly and clearly, and John began to laugh, and Sherlock groaned.

"Shut _up_, John!" The detective snarled, while the doctor barely seemed able to contain himself, his body shaking with uncontrollable giggles. Hearing Sherlock Holmes himself, self pronounced despiser of sentiment, sing about it loudly and unashamedly, was probably the funniest thing John had ever heard. "If you think that I actually like the song, you are _completely_ and utterly _wrong_-turn that off!" Sherlock demanded, his cheeks turning the slightest pink. John laughed even more at this-he had never seen Sherlock blush before.

"Oh! Stop it, Sherlock, your voice is so beautiful," Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"You hear that? Beautiful," John smirked, drawing out the U.

Sherlock had had enough. He stabbed the stop button with his finger, cutting off the recording of his voice in the middle of a note.

"Enough of that," he said icily. "Now, Mrs. Hudson. I want you to take that stereo back to your apartment, and I want you to destroy the tape."

"D-destroy it?"

"Yes."

"Now, Sherlock-"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"I don't have to destroy anything, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said testily, taking the stereo and heading for the stairs.

"I will find it!" Sherlock called after her. "You know I will!"

She didn't answer.

"Oh look, now you've made our landlady angry," John tsked.

"I want that tape." Sherlock said simply.

John couldn't help it. He burst into laughter again, causing the detective to sigh. Sherlock went to his microscope, trying to ignore his flatmate, who was giggling and imitating Sherlock's singing voice with great gusto.

He would never, ever hear the end of this.


	4. Playing Dress Up

**Author's Note: Before you read this chapter, I would just like to remind you all again that I do ****_not_**** ship or approve of Johnlock, and none of these stories are meant to be slash in any way, only ridiculously fluffy friendship. Enjoy! **

Playing Dress Up

John was writing a new entry for his blog when Sherlock slammed his way into John's bedroom. No matter how many times John brought it up, Sherlock always had to slam through each door he encountered. John always complained of holes in his wall, but Sherlock couldn't care less.

So when Sherlock slammed once again into John's room, John released a frustrated sigh.

"Sherlock, seriously-" John started, but cut himself off when he saw Sherlock, who was dressed in a ridiculous outfit.

He was wearing a bright pink v-neck shirt, extremely tight, dark wash skinny jeans, and his curly hair was immaculately styled with an excessive amount of gel. His eyes were heavily ringed with black, making his eyes stand out even more than usual.

John started to giggle, and quickly hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Sherlock frowned. "Problem?"

John lifted his head from his hands, looked at Sherlock, then collapsed into giggles once again. "Are you-" He repeated this several times, trying to catch his breath, but failed each time as laughter overcame him. "Are you wearing-" Another fit of laughter. "Eyeliner?" He finally gasped out.

Tears were now steadily streaming down John's face, his mouth split in a gigantic grin.

"Obviously. And I wouldn't be laughing if I were you, you're not excluded from this."

"From what?" John asked, wiping the tears from his face.

"We have a case. The suspect, Liam Parker, owns the Harp Lounge downtown, and I will be needing a date." Sherlock said, and he looked pointedly at John.

John stopped laughing. "No, I will not pretend to be your date."

"Yes, you will," Sherlock replied.

"No, I won't."

"Yes!"

"No, Sherlock! Honestly, why do you always choose me? Why can't you take Molly? She can be your fake date."

Sherlock snorted. "Please, Molly would be terrible going undercover. Besides, I need a date that would be believable."

"Believable!"

"People mistake us for a couple all the time, clearly we exude an intimacy that-"

"Okay, okay I get it!" John interrupted, and Sherlock smiled, satisfied.

"So you'll do it?"

"No."

The smile dropped off Sherlock's face. "Come on, I need your help!"

"No. I am not pretending to be your date, not now, not ever. And besides, even if I did, there would be no way you could get me to dress like that," he said, gesturing to Sherlock's outfit.

"I won't make you wear the eyeliner," Sherlock said.

John pretended to consider this for a moment. "Tempting, but still no."

"I'll stop using the fridge for body parts for a week!"

"Not interested!" John said, walking towards the kitchen.

"A month! A month, John!"

This stopped John in his tracks. "An entire month?" Now that was interesting.

"Hmm, you're getting closer," John said, feigning nonchalance.

Sherlock groaned. "What? You want more?"

"Yes, I do. As you and I both know perfectly well, I am not gay, and asking me to even pretend to be gay for a night is asking a lot, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Name your terms."

"No eyeliner, no pink, and absolutely _no_ kissing of any kind. We speak of it to no one, it stays strictly between us, am I understood?"

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"You do the grocery shopping the next three times, and I still expect the no body parts for a month bit."

"The grocery three times?" Sherlock asked, sounding horrified.

"Three times," John replied.

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Watson."

John shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

"Fine! Now wait one moment, I'll go get your disguise." Sherlock said excitedly.

John watched Sherlock go, shaking his head. He was going to regret this, wasn't he?

###

"Can't I just wear my regular clothes?" John complained as he walked out of the bathroom.

"Nonsense, this is perfect," Sherlock said, looking him over approvingly.

"Are you checking me out?" John demanded, suddenly paranoid.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. You need to fix your shirt, by the way."

"What's wrong with it?" John asked, looking down. He was wearing a fitted coral button down shirt, and a ridiculously posh pair of jeans. He had forgotten to name 'no hair gel' in his terms, so his hair was also styled as immaculately as Sherlock's.

"Let me do it," Sherlock said, annoyed. He stepped forward, grabbing the collar of John's shirt, and promptly began unbuttoning the top buttons.

"No, no," John said quickly, swatting away Sherlock's hands. "I can do it."

Sherlock stepped away, allowing John to undo the other top two buttons himself.

"Good, you're ready. Let's go." Sherlock said, grabbing two suit coats from the rack, and tossing one to John.

"And what's wrong with my coat?" John asked, but shrugging on the coat anyways.

Sherlock threw him a skeptical look.

"Right, yes, not posh enough," John muttered. "Let's go."

They went down the stairs, John praying that Mrs. Hudson would not see them. Fortunately, they exited the flat without being spotted.

Sherlock hailed a taxi, and John had to laugh again despite himself. The detective still looked funny in his pink shirt and eyeliner.

The taxi driver seemed just as amused by them, laughing to himself. "Have a hot date tonight, boys?"

John groaned inwardly. Yes, he was definitely going to regret this. "Answer him," he said under his breath to Sherlock, closing his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, could you take us to the Harp Lounge, please?"

"Sure. Keep it PG back there!" The cabbie chortled.

Sherlock laughed. "We'll try," he said, his voice bright, but his expression was annoyed. "No promises."

The driver and Sherlock laughed, and John pressed his hand to his forehead. It was going to be a long night.

###

They arrived at the Harp Lounge fifteen minutes later, and after a hearty goodbye from the driver and a "have fun!" they were standing on the street, watching couples going in, trying to figure out their entrance.

"How are we doing this?" John said in a low voice.

"Just treat me like you would one of your silly girlfriends," Sherlock responded.

"Uh, okay. I guess we could try an arm around the waist-" John began, demonstrating. He pulled away his arm in moments, it was too much.

"Or perhaps I should do it," Sherlock said, awkwardly wrapping one arm around John.

"No, it's not good that way either. Just-just give me your hand," John said. Sherlock obeyed, slipping his hand into John's, and John tried to imagine Sherlock was instead a beautiful female date as he held on.

"This will do," Sherlock said quietly. "Let's go."

They walked inside, the music beating loud in their ears. Sherlock seemed a little unsure, John was pretty certain the detective had never been in a pub before.

"What's the plan?" John asked.

"Work our way through, get into the suspect's office, get the information I need and get out," Sherlock muttered.

"Sounds good to me," John said. "Let's go then." They moved farther into the pub, pushing through the crowd of dancing, drunk people.

John had to pull Sherlock through, he was lagging behind, looking around at all the people and probably deducing a million things at once.

"Come on," John said harshly. "They're drunk people, not paintings in a museum."

"I'm observing," Sherlock said. "Now go get us drinks."

John stopped. "What?"

"We need to blend in. Problem?"

"None at all," John sighed, heading for the bar.

When he returned, he found Sherlock trapped by a group of three giggling girls, recoiling at their attempts to play with his hair.

_Can't leave him alone for two seconds, can I?_ John thought.

"Excuse me, girls, that's my boyfriend you've got your hands on." he said smoothly, stepping in. He tried not to wince at the word 'boyfriend', hoping and praying that he would never have to utter those words ever again.

"Aww," the girls sighed, reluctantly stepping away, but not going nearly far enough. John stepped forward, handing Sherlock one of the drinks. "Here you go, _babe_," he said, throwing the detective a dirty look, but turning his face so the girls wouldn't see.

"Thank you...?" Sherlock said.

John turned to the girls. "Go on, then!"

The girls sighed again, and finally made their exit, saying something like "should have known..."

John turned back to Sherlock, who was looking at him rather strangely.

"What?" John asked. "I swear, if you're checking me out again..."

The two of them looked at each other, then began to laugh.

"Seriously, though," John said after they stopped giggling long enough to breathe, "what's with the look? Impressed I can act?"

"Perhaps. Let's go, I found a way into Parker's office." He said, setting his drink on a nearby table.

"How?" John asked, finishing off his drink and setting the glass next to Sherlock's full one.

"Did you think I was speaking with those girls for no reason?"

"Were you speaking with them?" John asked innocently. "It looked more to me like you were trying to escape from them."

"Don't be ridiculous, I had perfect control of the situation."

"Sure," said John sarcastically. "You had it all under control, especially when they were trying to play with your hair."

Sherlock grunted. "Yes. Now shut up and take my hand."

John complied, chuckling. "You've been a terrible boyfriend," he commented as Sherlock pulled him forward. "I leave for two minutes and you start flirting. That's not very nice, is it?"

Sherlock snorted. "Sorry, _babe_. Now are you done?"

"Yep," John said. "For now."

They walked to the back of the club, entering through a door that read "Employees Only", which led into a long hallway.

"Parker's office is supposed to be two doors down and on the right," Sherlock said.

"How are we going to get in?" John asked once they found the door.

Sherlock pulled a key out from his pocket. "Those girls were very helpful," he said, and he unlocked the door.

The door swung open, and the two stepped inside. "Look for anything that seems suspicious," Sherlock told him, handing him a torch. "Any sign of being in possession of illegal drugs."

They searched in silence for a few minutes, rummaging through the drawers.

"Aha!" Sherlock said. "I've found it!" He held up a bulging file. "This will be enough evidence for Lestrade."

"Can we get out of here, then?" John said.

Sherlock was about to answer when they heard footsteps. He shut the drawer quietly and moved towards John. "Trust me," he breathed.

Suddenly, he grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him into the wall, bracing them there with his hands. "Follow my lead," Sherlock said softly, as the footsteps grew louder.

"Okay," John said hesitantly, already dreading whatever Sherlock was planning.

Sherlock came closer, pressing his chest to John's, moving his face far too close to his, their foreheads touching. He knew what it was going to look like, and the thought made him want to squirm. But he had been brought here to play gay, so he was going to have to go through with it. He cursed himself for letting Sherlock convince him to do this. He would do the grocery shopping for the rest of his life, this was not worth only three times of making Sherlock do the shopping.

This was by far the most uncomfortable, horrifying day of his life.

"Don't freak out," Sherlock told him.

"Why would I freak out?" John breathed, sarcastic. "This is a perfectly normal thing to do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just making certain," he said, and he slipped an arm around John's waist.

John shuddered as he felt Sherlock's breath on his neck, and he forced himself to stay calm. Sherlock reached down with his other hand, moving it through John's hair, tousling it as he went.

John tensed at the touch, forcing himself not to shiver.

"Now do it to me," Sherlock said. "Hurry, he's almost here!"

John was not as gentle as Sherlock, half tousling his hair, and half smacking his head to properly show his distaste for the task.

The footsteps stopped.

"Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." John answered.

Sherlock nodded slightly.

The door opened, and Sherlock abruptly shoved them both into the corner, moving his face to the side of John's. He slipped him the file, which John tucked into his coat.

"Oi! What are you doing here?" An angry voice sounded from the door.

Sherlock and John broke apart, looking at the man at the door.

"Sorry," Sherlock drawled, fixing a slightly embarrassed expression onto his face. "Is this your office? Sorry mate, we didn't know."

"Yeah," John said, adding a slur to his voice. "I guess we got carried away and didn't even notice."

The man, who was Liam Parker himself, looked disgusted. "Go find some other dark corner to snog in," he said. "I should ban you for sneaking into my office, but I'm feeling generous. Get out."

Sherlock led John out by the hand, both muttering abashed apologies as they exited the office. John didn't even have to pretend to be embarrassed, he could feel the heat in his cheeks as they left.

Once they were safely back in the pub with the other people, they both sighed in relief.

"Good work." Sherlock said.

"I know I should take that as a compliment, but I would rather not." John replied. "Good work to you too, I guess."

"Why would you not take that as a compliment?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"Because I don't want to be complimented for being able to look like I was just making out with my flatmate!" John said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, it was mostly you."

"You're right, I _did_ do most of the work."

John sighed. "Let's just get out of here, okay? I want to go home, get changed, and never, ever think about this night again."

Sherlock agreed, and the two of them made their way to the exit, the detective holding John's hand with his left and texting Lestrade with his right.

"John Watson, is that you?" An obnoxious but familiar voice called from behind them.

"No," John moaned under his breath.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked, sounding bored.

"Charlie Turner," John replied. "Come on, let's go!"

Sherlock stopped. "Why don't we say hello?" He said, smirking.

"No, we are _going_," John said, trying to pull Sherlock forward.

"John Watson! It is you!"

John froze. He was caught.

"Charlie," he said in way of greeting, his voice strained as he turned around.

Charlie Turner looked exactly like he did when John knew him at uni, short and a bit tubby, a broad smile stretching across his face, except for now he was holding on to the hand of one of John's ex-girlfriends from uni, Tamara Graham.

"John Watson, look at you! You haven't changed a bit!" Charlie crowed. "Hey, you remember Tamara, don't you, John?"

"Of course, how could I forget?" John said, hoping he sounded pleasant. He tried to pull his hand from Sherlock's, but the detective was having none of it.

Tamara smiled at him winningly, ignoring her date. "You're looking good, John," she said, looking him over. "I heard you were in the army, is that true?"

"Yes," said John stiffly.

"I do love a man in uniform," she said, and she winked.

"Don't be silly, Tamara, the man's clearly taken." Charlie said, sounding a bit annoyed. "Anyways, John, aren't you going to introduce us to your boyfriend here?"

"He's not my boyfriend-" John began, but Sherlock cut him off. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, shaking Charlie's hand with his free one. "So nice to meet you. Sorry about John, he's having trouble coming to terms about _us_," Sherlock said, looking pointedly at his flatmate.

John was seriously fighting the urge to punch him across the face.

"No worries, I understand completely," Charlie said brightly. "Relationships are crazy these days."

"You're telling me," John muttered under his breath.

"I know," Sherlock said. "It took so long for John to admit that he had feelings for me."

John was going to kill him. He was going to shoot him and leave him in the gutter to die.

"Oh, I understand completely," Tamara said. "He did the same thing to me in uni. You should have seen him, he was shaking, the poor thing."

Scratch that, he was going to shoot himself.

"I wasn't nervous," he said defensively, but no one was listening.

Sherlock, Tamara and Charlie laughed. His flatmate shot him a snide look.

"Go on, tell us the whole story," Tamara said eagerly.

"We don't want to bore you with the details," John said quickly. "And besides, Sherlock and I were just _leaving_."

"Oh come on," Tamara pleaded. "Please tell us!"

Sherlock pulled John closer, bringing their clasped hands up to his mouth, making John wince. "Oh, John, you know how much I love it when you get all bossy," he said dreamily. "But come on _babe_, it will only take a second!"

"_No_." John said firmly. "I said, we're going home."

"You live together?" Tamara asked. "Wow, congratulations. He wouldn't move in with me, the idea always made him anxious. You must be pretty special, Sherlock," she cooed.

"Great seeing you again," John said, and he yanked hard on Sherlock's hand. "Say goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye!" Sherlock called cheerfully over his shoulder as John dragged him away.

"I hate you," John said when they were safely in the taxi. "You're lucky I don't have my gun."

"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock responded. "I was just playing the part."

"No, you were just trying to embarrass me."

A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "If you say so."

When they finally arrived at Baker Street, John practically jumped out of the taxi and ran up the stairs. He was tempted to lock Sherlock out, but decided against it.

He went to the fridge to get a drink, and found they had nothing.

"Sherlock?" He called. "We're out of milk."

"So?" Sherlock said, flopping on the couch.

"_So_, we had a deal," John replied. "Remember? Three times grocery shopping."

"And you want me to go now?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Is the grocery even open?"

"Of course," said John, turning to face him, smiling. "It's open 24/7."

"I need to change first," Sherlock insisted. "I'm wearing_ makeup_!"'

"Don't be a thirteen year old girl. You can go the way you are."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine." He stood up and got his coat. "I suppose I can have Lestrade pick up the file from there."

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He said exasperatedly, turning to face John.

John snapped a picture with his phone. "Ha! That's a good one for the blog."

"You post that on your blog, and I _will_ murder you," Sherlock threatened. With that, he left.

John chuckled to himself, and went to get his laptop. He already had a caption in mind.


	5. Everything's Fine

**Author's Note: This story is a little more angsty than the others. I apologize for that, but it still has lots of fluff, brotherly love, and general awkwardness. :)**

**Let me know what you think!**

Everything's Fine

"John, are you listening to me?" Sherlock said impatiently.

Sherlock and John were riding home in a cab after a particularly complicated case. John had been working at the surgery for most of the case, but had accompanied Sherlock when he had revealed the culprit and Lestrade had made the arrest. Sherlock had been explaining to John exactly how he had figured out who was guilty, but had cut off when he realized John was not listening.

"Hmm?" John squeezed his eyes shut quickly, then opened them again. "Of course, you just were explaining something about..er, a flamingo?"

Sherlock scowled. "No, I said that more than ten minutes ago!"

"Oh." John said noncommittally.

Sherlock's frown deepened. The cab had stopped, and John started to fumble in his pocket for some fare. Sherlock turned his sharp gaze to John, examining him thoroughly. John was paler than usual, thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and he stumbled slightly on the way out of the cab. Obviously ill. Sherlock was a bit annoyed he hadn't noticed earlier, but he was solving a wonderfully difficult case after all. He couldn't be expected to solve the case _and _keep tabs on John's health as well, could he?

The flat mates walked into 221B, and John collapsed into the nearest chair. Sherlock flopped onto the couch with a book in hand. He opened the book to a random page. "You're ill." Sherlock stated, his eyes fixed on the book, but taking in none of it.

"Figured that out all on your own, did you?" John said, grimacing and rubbing his eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock paused, not quite sure what to say next. "You should get some rest." He continued, stiffly. "And paracetamol."

"Thank you, Dr. Holmes." John said sarcastically.

"I'm only trying to help." Sherlock said, a bit petulantly.

John sighed. "I'm sorry, I know you mean well. I just, well, frankly, I feel like crap." He groaned as he stood up, and was still for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to subside. "You're right though, I should head off to bed."

Sherlock gave a tight nod. "Yes, you should."

Sherlock's eyes followed John over the top of his book as John shuffled around the flat, grabbing medicine and water. "Good night."

"Mm." Sherlock grunted, acting as if he were very absorbed in his book.

John sighed, and headed up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock listened as John stopped once, twice, on the stairs, coughed, walked around his bedroom for a few minutes, and then finally relaxed when he heard John settle into bed.

Sherlock was a bit tired himself for once, the case had been grueling but satisfying. He tinkered with an experiment he had been working on for a couple of hours, but stopped when he discovered he couldn't fully concentrate on it because of exhaustion. He didn't even realize he had fallen asleep when he was suddenly awoken by John screaming. Sherlock immediately bolted off the couch and ran up the stairs to John's bedroom. Images of John wrestling with a murderer, John battling for his life, flew through Sherlock's mind. He was ready to fight off the intruder when he flung open the door to John's room. What he saw was much different than what he expected, and it sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. John was writhing on the bed, soaked in sweat, back arched in pain, as he continued to scream. His fingers were clutching the sheets, knuckles white.

Sherlock stared in terror for a moment at his best friend who was coming undone before his eyes. He knew that John had had nightmares, but never anything like this, at least while he had been living with Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders. "John, wake up!" He struggled in Sherlock's grip, eyes darting around blindly."Wake up, you're having a nightmare!" Sherlock said firmly, but the words had no effect as John continued to scream and tried to escape Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock was at a loss, his mind scrambled desperately for a solution. What would an average person do? He didn't have any experience with comforting, never been close enough to anyone for that. Distantly, he remembered, when he was very young, Mummy would hold him close and rub his back after he had a nightmare. He didn't quite remember if it had been effective, but it was the only idea he had. He pulled John into a sitting position, and wrapped him tightly in an embrace. He could feel how tense John was as he started to rub John's back, attempting to release him from the nightmare. John fought against Sherlock, struggling to break free. Sherlock had to use all the strength he had to hold John down. Eventually, John's screams soon reduced to small whimpers, and his body relaxed in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock sat stone still as he listened to John's heavy breathing. He loosened his hold, but didn't completely let go. "John?" He whispered, when John's breathing became slow and even. "Are you awake?"

There was silence for a moment, then a muffled, "Yes."

"You were having a nightmare." Sherlock said, arms still wrapped around John, unsure when the proper moment would be to let go.

John groaned, and shifted his weight, and Sherlock released John. The two men sat side by side on the edge of the bed. John pressed his hands to his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It must be the bloody fever."

"I do not understand why you are apologizing." Sherlock said. "You are hardly capable of controlling nightmares brought on by a high fever."

"Guess that's true." John cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed. "They're just usually not this extreme."

"Usually?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but instead began to cough violently, each one racking his body. He finished after a long minute, and was quiet.

"Well, if you're, erm, good now-" Sherlock felt suddenly awkward with the whole situation.

John smiled weakly. "Go back to bed."

Sherlock stood up quickly, and exited the room. He wasn't certain, but he thought he heard John say, "Thank you." He would have stopped and replied, but he wanted to avoid any further displays of affection, so he walked briskly out into the main room.

Sherlock waited until he heard John get back into bed to grab his laptop, and he started to research nightmares and how to help treat them. Many of the results suggested that a close physical presence helped abate nightmares. Hopefully it would work with John as well.

Sherlock moved to the chair closest to the stairs leading up to John's room. He curled up in the chair with the laptop, and eventually fell asleep.

Suddenly, he was awoken by John screaming his name. He leapt up the stairs to find John in a similar situation as earlier-covered in sweat, screaming-but this time he was sitting straight up, eyes filled with pure horror, staring blankly, and repeating Sherlock's name.

"John, I'm here, you're fine!" Sherlock tried to comfort the sick man.

John's eyes widened, terrified. He waved his arms around wildly. "Sherlock, get down!"

Sherlock ducked to avoid John's arms, but wasn't quick enough. John's fist clipped Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock grunted from the impact.

"No, no, no, no. Sherlock, you weren't supposed to be here!" John moaned.

Sherlock tried grabbing John's arm, but his distressed flatmate was having none of it.

"You _have_ to let me help him," John cried out, wrenching his arm out of Sherlock's grasp. "He's my friend!"

"John! I'm fine, everything's fine!" Sherlock repeated.

"No, Sherlock, keep breathing." John murmured. "Don't you dare die on me, not here!" John's voice started to rise frantically. He was still for a few moments, his jaw tight, his face set in determination. Suddenly, a look of horror overcame his features. "No!" A harsh scream erupted from John's lips, tears springing up in his eyes.

Sherlock had had enough. He pulled the distraught man up into a sitting position. He gripped John's shoulders and shook him lightly. "Wake up, it's just a dream!"

John woke up with a sharp gasp. "Sherlock?" His voice cracked slightly. "You alright?"

Sherlock exhaled in relief. Of course the first thing John would worry about when he woke up from a terrible nightmare was Sherlock's well being.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said. "You're the one who just had a nightmare. Are _you_ alright?"

John blinked several times, looking exhausted, and ran a hand over his face. "I'm fine. Sorry about that."

"Did you dream about Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked over at Sherlock, almost seeming hesitant to answer. "Yes."

"I suppose I should let you get back to sleep." Sherlock said.

"Yes, I suppose." John replied, but neither man moved.

There was a long silence. Suddenly, Sherlock stood up.

"Budge over." Sherlock ordered.

John stared blearily at Sherlock, confused. "What? Why?"

"It's scientifically proven that a close physical presence helps prevent nightmares. I am a close physical presence, so logically, if I get into bed with you, it will help you sleep better, which in turn, will help me sleep better. So are you going to let me get in, or do you want more nightmares?"

John gaped at Sherlock for a moment. He shook his head. "I don't want any more nightmares."

"That's what I thought. Now, budge over."

John moved to the side, giving Sherlock just enough room to slip in under the covers. John's bed was spacious enough for one person, but rather tight for two. The two men shifted around awkwardly, trying to give the other enough room. They settled into a somewhat comfortable position, both men shoulder to shoulder, squished up against the other.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, when John began to make strange wheezing noises, and his shoulders began to shake. Concerned, Sherlock craned his neck in order to see John's face, and was surprised to see that John was laughing.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, confused.

John continued to wheeze, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, face red with laughter. "I am.. sleeping with Sherlock..bloody.. Holmes. If people ask me if I have slept with you, what am I supposed to say?" He laughed, which turned into a harsh cough. "I mean, I'm not sleeping with you, I'm sleeping beside you, but if they ask s' hard to explain, get it?" John was babbling now, his voice slurring. He turned onto his side, and rested his head completely on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Go to sleep, you're obviously delirious." Sherlock said sensibly.

John answered by snuggling into Sherlock's side, face buried into his shirt, and began snoring lightly.

Sherlock chuckled softly, and smiled. "Sleep well, John."

###

_Click!_

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Who let you in here, Lestrade?"

"Your landlady," Lestrade replied, sounding amused. "But I'm sure if she had known you were _busy_, she wouldn't have sent me up."

Sherlock sighed silently, irritated. He opened his eyes.

Lestrade was grinning as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He looked pointedly at John, who was still pressed up against Sherlock, his head resting on Sherlock's chest.

"Oh don't be stupid, he's ill." Sherlock said quietly, rolling his eyes.

Lestrade shook his head, still smiling. "Uh huh. Anyways-"

"Shhhh!" Sherlock hissed, cutting him off. "He's still asleep, you idiot! You'll wake him up if you keep screaming like that."

Lestrade scoffed. "I wasn't screaming-"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "Quieter."

Lestrade lifted an eyebrow, but lowered his voice. "I just thought you'd like to know that we found a third victim."

"Good. I'll be along shortly." Sherlock waved his hand, shooing him away.

Donovan opened the door. "Sir, how much longer are we going to have to- oh." Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Sherlock and John in bed.

"Hush!" Sherlock scolded. "Why don't you just invite all of Scotland Yard in here?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Sorry, Donovan, it looks like we've interrupted something here."

Donovan was staring at Sherlock and John, mouth open. "Wow, Freak, didn't know you had it in you. I mean, we all guessed it would come eventually, but not this soon."

"How many times do I have to say he's ill?" Sherlock demanded.

The two ignored him. "I think this means I win," Lestrade said to Donovan.

"You had a _bet_?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "How soon we would catch you guys in bed together."

"This is ridiculous!" Sherlock said. "You don't win anything, because _nothing happened_."

"That's where you're wrong, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "The bet was when we would catch you guys in bed together-no one ever said it had to be romantic. I have caught you two in bed together, so I win. Pay up, Donovan."

Donovan sighed, reaching into her coat for her wallet.

"Great, good. Now get out of here." Sherlock said irritably.

"Go on, Donovan, I'll meet you in the car," said Lestrade. Donovan obeyed.

"I meant _both_ of you," said Sherlock.

Lestrade just laughed. "Look, Sherlock, anything you want to admit, man to man?"

Sherlock groaned. "No! I'm not interested in John romantically, you idiot. He was ill, as I have told you already about three times. I swear, if I have to tell you again-"

"Calm down, I was only joking. I know you two aren't gay."

Sherlock's face relaxed.

Lestrade grinned. "Though you do look rather adorable together-"

"Get. Out."

Lestrade snickered, and exited the flat. As he got into the car, he pulled out his phone to look at the picture he had taken of the two sleeping. Sherlock's arm was hanging loosely around John's shoulders, as if he were protecting his friend. His hair was mussed, his mouth hanging slightly open, head tilted to the side. John was curled up at Sherlock's side, his head resting on Sherlock's chest. They looked perfectly content.

Lestrade chuckled to himself. He knew they were not gay, but they were going to have a hard time explaining this one to all of Scotland Yard.


	6. Stuck With You

**Author's Note: Sorry to all those who are waiting for Not the John Watson You Know, I was writing Chapter 7 when this idea popped into my head and I just had to write it. I promise Chapter 7 will be up very soon (probably as soon as tomorrow), it is going through some major editing right now.  
Also, I made some minor edits to Chapter 4: Playing Dress Up. It's only a few more lines of dialogue here and there, but if you want to check it out, that would be great! **

**Anyways, enjoy and please review! **

Stuck With You

"...and I told you not to-"

"How was I supposed to know that..."

"You just don't get it!"

Sherlock and John always had a tendency to make a dramatic entrance, and today was no different. They walked into Mycroft's sitting room, bickering loudly and unabashedly, both looking like they would like to do nothing more than rip their flatmate's head off.

"What about 'come now' did you not understand?"

"I wasn't going to leave work so I could hand you a bloody pen!"

"I didn't need a pen! Obviously I needed-"

"Oh, what? Your phone was more than two feet away?"

"Oh, never mind, I don't expect your weak little brain to be able to comprehend-"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence!"

"-to comprehend the simplest things!"

"Pleasure to have you here, as always," Mycroft said smoothly from his seat on his couch, as the two men glared at each other.

"The pleasure is all mine," Sherlock snapped, but still glowering at John. "Now, you said you had something for me."

"Of course," Mycroft said. "If you and John are _done_, your client is waiting for you." He gestured to the young, red haired man sitting across from him.

"Hello," the man said uncertainly. "Is this a bad time?" He said, mostly to Mycroft. "If they are in the middle of a row, this can wait."

"No, no," John said, looking pointedly at his flatmate. "This is the perfect time."

"Yes,_ perfect_," Sherlock agreed, scowling.

The two men walked over, now both refusing to acknowledge the other's presence as they sat on the couch near Mycroft and the red haired man. The couch was small, causing the two to be sitting closer than they would have liked.

"No, really," the man insisted. "I know how relationships are, you should give each other some time to-

John laughed. "Of course it will. Tell me, why does everyone think I want to be in a relationship with you, Sherlock? Because of your massive intellect and charm?" He said sarcastically, addressing his flatmate but still refusing to look at him. "Oh yes, I just _love_ that! Oh, and the way that you bother me about silly things all the time? Can't resist that, can I?"

Sherlock, not to be outdone, quickly joined in. "Yes, it must be because they can see how much I _adore_ your constant needling and complaining about everything!" He said, also avoiding looking at his flatmate.

"Or the way you make me do all the common, average things you can't be bothered with! I mean, I must be the luckiest man on earth!"

"And I just love the way you bring home ridiculous, silly girls and expect me to interact with them!"

Mycroft knew he should put a stop to all this, it was purely unprofessional and frankly idiotic, but he found it almost entertaining. The client just sat with his mouth open, eyes flicking back and forth from Sherlock to John as the two argued.

"...and it just turns me on when you leave dead things in the kitchen where normal human beings are supposed to eat!"

"And you are just so attractive when you talk _on _and _on_ when I'm thinking!"

"Sherlock, John, really, you have a client-" Mycroft began, but John shushed him, throwing him an irritated look. "Oh, and it just makes me want to kiss you every time you do something to destroy our flat!"

"And I feel the same whenever you nag at me-_shut up, Mycroft_-" Sherlock snapped when Mycroft tried again to interfere-"during my experiments!"

"Oh! Oh! And the way you call me in the middle of work and make me come home and do something you could have done easily yourself!"

"Yes! And I just _love _the way you refuse to come home from work when I simply need your help for a case!" Sherlock shouted.

John opened his mouth to retort, but then shut it again, struck momentarily speechless. "You _needed_ my help," he said.

"Of course not, I didn't need_ you_ specifically, anyone could have done." Sherlock said shortly.

John just shook his head and chuckled. "Okay, Sherlock."

The two seemed to have completely forgotten that Mycroft and their client were still there, finally looking at each other.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably after a long moment of silence.

"Why didn't you just say so?" John asked, shaking his head.

"I thought it was obvious," Sherlock said. "Really, John, as always, you see but do not observe. Speaking of which, Mr. Scott," he said, addressing the client, "your brother is the one who stole the money, ask him about the missing key card and you'll have your man." Sherlock stood up, ignoring Mr. Scott's spluttering. "You'll also find that your wife is having an affair with the same brother. Let's go, John, there's nothing left to do here."

"Mr. Holmes, I must protest-"

"Don't worry, Mr. Scott. Just give your wife some _time_," he smirked, looking over at John, grinning at him for just a moment before looking back at Mr. Scott.

"Yes, time-" John cut off, bursting into giggles, and Sherlock joined in, the both of them laughing like children at the now furious Mr. Scott, who was loudly insisting that this wasn't amusing in the slightest, and why the devil were they laughing?

Mycroft shook his head. He couldn't decide whether the two of them were more like an old married couple or a pair of schoolboys.

"Good day, Mr. Scott. Mycroft," Sherlock said, still chuckling. John nodded to them, and the detective and the doctor made their exit, giggling and laughing out the door, far more amused than they should have been at Sherlock's joke.

"I do apologize, Mr. Scott," Mycroft said to the fuming man beside him.

"My wife would never-how dare he suggest such a thing?"

Mycroft, who could see the evidence just as well as Sherlock, tactfully decided not to mention Mrs. Scott further. "I would suggest speaking to your brother like he advised," Mycroft said. "Good day, Mr. Scott."

"Good day," the other man replied curtly, already heading for the door.

Mycroft walked over to his desk, and opened up his laptop. He pushed a key and a video feed popped up, showing his brother and his partner leaving the premises, talking and smiling.

A corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked upwards.

He really was going to have to teach his brother about handling his clients.


	7. More Than Friends

More Than Friends

"I hate you."

"So I've heard." John casually flipped to the next page in his newspaper. "Honestly, Sherlock, going to the dentist is not going to kill you."

"This isn't just a normal appointment, this is surgery! I don't _want_ surgery." Sherlock growled, folding his arms.

"It's just your wisdom teeth."

"Yes, and a bullet wound is just a scrape," The detective shot back.

"Hey!"

Sherlock smirked, burrowing deeper into his chair.

"Why don't you just admit that you're nervous?" John asked coolly, after a few minutes of silence.

"I'm not _nervous_, please. I am just annoyed that you are making me  
do this."

"_I_ am not making you do this," John replied. "The dentist is, you are_ this _close to an infection, you need to have this done. It's not something you get to choose."

"A double homicide! I am missing a double homicide for this." Sherlock complained.

"You'll be fine." John said, unconcerned about his friend's plight.

Sherlock humphed, and fell back into silence once more.

The door in front of them opened, and a nurse stepped out. "Mr. Holmes? We're ready for you now. If you'll follow me?"

Sherlock looked over at John pleadingly.

"Go on," John said, waving him forward.

"No thank you."

"_Go_." John ordered, glaring at his flatmate.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and gave in, getting up to follow the nurse.

The nurse looked at John. "You could come too, if that will make your um, _friend _feel better."

Sherlock made an angry noise. "I don't need-"

"I'll come," John decided. "Can't let you escape, can I?"

Sherlock glowered at John; he was caught.

The two followed the nurse down a long hallway, and finally entered a room marked 2C.

"Sit right there, Mr. Holmes." The nurse said, gesturing to the dentist chair.

Sherlock grudgingly did so, grumbling to himself the entire time.

"Behave," John reminded Sherlock as the nurse prepared to give the detective the anesthesia.

"Not a problem," he replied testily. "I'm not nervous."

"If you say so." John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock took a deep breath, tapping his fingers against his leg.

"Do you need me to hold your hand?" John said mockingly.

"Yes."

"What? Sherlock, you know I wasn't serious-"

"And neither was I. I just wanted to see your reaction."

"You're insane, you know that?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just jerked his head irritably.

"Could you turn your arm over?" The nurse asked. Sherlock complied, allowing the nurse to inject the needle.

"Count backwards from 100," the nurse instructed.

"No."

A pause.

He sighed. "100, 99, 98..." Sherlock began counting.

Sherlock kept his eyes on John as the anesthesia took over. After a few moments, his eyelids fluttered shut, and he was out.

It was sweet in a way, seeing how nervous his friend was, when he was usually so strictly emotionless. It was little things like this that reminded him that Sherlock was, after all, human.

"If you'll wait outside, Dr. Watson..." The nurse said.

"Of course." John stood up, glanced one last time at the detective, smiled to himself, and left the room.

###

"Dr. Watson?"

"Hmm?" John's eyes snapped open. He must have fallen asleep.

"Mr. Holmes is ready to go home now." The same nurse from before was standing in front of him.

"Alright, thank you," John yawned. Oh, he was going to have a nasty crick in his neck...

He got up and stretched, and followed the nurse down the hallway back to 2C.

Sherlock looked completely disoriented, eyes darting around the room, his mouth slack, two rolls of bloodied gauze sticking out from either side of his mouth, his cheeks swollen. John had to stifle a laugh, he had never seen the detective like this before.

"Jawn! Jawn!" Sherlock cried suddenly. "Where Jawn?"

"Hey, calm down," John said hurriedly, stepping into Sherlock's line of vision.

"I told you I wasn't nervous, Jawn," Sherlock slurred. "Look! I...fine. Never better. See, I understand everything that is going on. I...surgery. You...not. You're blonde, Jawn, d'ya know?"

"Right, yes," John said. "Are you okay to stand up by yourself?"

"'Course. Perfectly c'pable. Watch."

Sherlock sat up slowly, and held out his arms at either side, as if trying to show off the amazing fact that he could sit up. He threw John a look that probably was meant to be a smirk, but ended up looking more like an awkward grimace, eyebrows waggling.

"Quite good, Sherlock," John said sarcastically. "Now try standing."

"Please." Sherlock scoffed. He rolled his eyes, but the effect was again lost because of his slack mouth. His legs flopped to the side, and then he lowered his feet carefully to the floor.

He stood up shakily, looking rather like a newborn foal trying to find his balance.

"See, Jawn, I am perf-" Sherlock suddenly pitched forward, arms pinwheeling in the air. John acted quickly, stepping forward to let the detective fall into his arms rather than onto the floor. It was a rather awkward position at first, Sherlock's arms hanging around John's neck, his head resting underneath John's chin, his curly hair tickling his flatmate's neck.

John shifted Sherlock to the side, putting an arm around the detective's waist, holding him up.

"See, I told you I could stand," Sherlock slurred.

"Sure," John said.

The door opened, and the doctor walked in. "Hello, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes."

"Hi!" Sherlock shouted enthusiastically before John had a chance to speak. "I can stand and I know e'rything that's happening right now!"

"Good for you," the doctor said to Sherlock, then he turned to John. "Everything went well, he should be right as rain in a few weeks." He handed John a white paper bag. "Make sure he takes one of each every day."

"Right, thank you doctor," John said.

"Hey!" Sherlock said. "I know you," he said as if though he had just come up with something absolutely brilliant, dragging a hand across John's face. "Hey! You wanna know what else I just thought of? We should be friends, Jawn." He drawled. "Oh!" He said, his face lighting up. "No. No, we should be _more_ than friends! We should be partners!"

John spluttered angrily. "Sherlock! What's gotten into you?"

"Oh, don't be like that, Jawn, I mean...the working kind. Not..." he trailed off, trying to remember. "...not the _other_ kind." Sherlock finished, turning to address the doctor. "He's so touchy about people thinking we're a couple. Everyone thinks that, they're such idiots. Do _you_ think we look gay? Come on, really."

The doctor looked unsure. "Do-do you want me to answer honestly?"

"Please don't," John said, his face turning red.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was already moving on to other subjects.

"I'm very smart," he told the doctor. "I'm a smart detective. Jawn is always saying how smart I am. Don't you think I'm smart, Jawn?"

"You are a complete idiot," John muttered, forcing him to step forward. "We're leaving now. Thank you," he said to the doctor.

"Take care," the doctor replied, looking amused now.

John and Sherlock then made their awkward exit, Sherlock weaving and ranting like a drunk man, and John struggling to keep him moving.

Sherlock was no less embarrassing on the taxi ride home, returning to the subject of the two being partners and talking about all the crimes they could solve together if they were just "paaaaartners, Jawn."

"You may have forgotten we are partners, and we already do solve crimes together," John reminded him wearily. He didn't try to specify to the driver that they weren't gay, it seemed pointless now to try to tell anyone that they were working partners, not romantic ones.

Sherlock made more trouble for himself when he tried to exit the taxi on his own, and sprawled quite ungracefully onto the pavement. John couldn't help laughing at the bewildered detective, who was confused at how he had gone from sitting up perfectly well on the taxi seat to lying on the ground.

"Come here, you tosser," John laughed, and he picked up Sherlock, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It was much easier than trying to get Sherlock to walk, trying to get the drugged detective to move was like attempting to force a baby to walk before its time. He carried the babbling Sherlock up the stairs, and into the flat.

"My mouth feels strange," he informed John once he was lying on his own bed, propped up on his pillows.

"It's just numb. Be happy that it's just that for now, you're going to hurt soon."

"Okay," Sherlock said cheerfully. "I'm bleeding." He pointed to his gauze pads, smiling absurdly. It was one of the most ridiculous and almost sad things John had ever seen, the detective looked silly trying to smile with his swollen cheeks and blood soaked gauze pads.

"Thank you for noticing," John said, going to get fresh gauze.

When he returned, he found Sherlock trying to get out of bed, tangled up in his sheets. "Oh, no you don't," John scolded, pushing his flatmate back into bed. "You need rest. Now let me see your mouth."

Sherlock humphed, but obliged. John changed his gauze pads, but that didn't deter the detective from talking on during the process, making the changing more difficult than it should have been.

"Do you ever stop talking?" John snarled after he finished the changing.

"No." Sherlock giggled.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. Lie back and take this." John said, handing him a pill. "That's for the pain."

"I feel fine."

"For now." John said, standing up. "Want anything to eat?"

"Tired." Sherlock answered after a moment.

"Okay, then get some sleep. You can eat when you wake up." John said, moving towards the door.

"Jawn."

"Yes?" John asked, turning around.

"You...you are a good partner," Sherlock mumbled, and he closed his eyes.

"Thank you," John said, and he smiled. This was the Sherlock equivalent of saying "you're my best friend" and "thank you".

"Sleep well," he said, and he turned off the light.

###

Sherlock awoke to darkness, and he blinked, confused. He didn't remember going to sleep. He pushed back the covers, and tried to think. It was then he noticed the pain, and he winced. He reached up and touched his face, surprised at how swollen his cheeks were.

"John! _John_!"

The door opened a few moments later, and John stepped inside, dressed in his pyjamas."What?" He asked, turning on the light. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"What happened to my face?" Sherlock asked, horrified, gingerly touching his cheeks.

"Wisdom teeth, remember?" John yawned, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Go back to sleep, it's two in the morning."

"Is it really? I don't feel tired at all."

"Of course, you don't," John muttered. "I bet you're hungry now, too."

As if on cue, Sherlock's stomach growled. "Actually, I am."

John sighed. "Come on, then. Let's go get you something."

Sherlock slid out of bed, standing up slowly, feeling a little wobbly as he followed after John into the kitchen. He sat down at the table, watching his flatmate make soup.

"What happened after the surgery?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes of quiet.

"You want to know the truth?" John asked, pouring the soup into two bowls.

"Yes."

"You acted like a complete buffoon," John said bluntly. "Kept going back and forth about how we should be partners and then going on about how good of a partner I am. Not only that, you probably fell on your face about a hundred times. So I think it's safe to say you looked like a fool."

This sounded vaguely familiar, but Sherlock just couldn't remember.

"Partners?"

"Oh, don't worry, you were quick to assure me you meant 'working' partners." John said, grimacing. "Too bad the doctor, the cabbie and Mrs. Hudson didn't see it that way."

"Mrs. Hudson was here?" Sherlock asked, perplexed. Surely he would have remembered that...

"Yes, she was. She was _very_ interested to hear about our so named partnership," John said.

Sherlock groaned. "What did I say to her?"

"I'll let you make your own deductions." John said dismissively, turning his attention back to his soup.

"John-"

"Let's just say you did _not_ help the whole 'we're not a couple' thing."

Sherlock was quite curious now. "Just tell me, John. I'm sure it's not that bad."

John raised an eyebrow. "Does saying you find me 'ridiculously adorable' count as not that bad?"

"What? You're lying."

"I wish I was."

"I have never described anything as 'adorable' in my entire life!" Sherlock protested, appalled.

"Apparently there's a first time for everything," said John. "Mrs. Hudson thought it was so funny she filmed you talking about it for an hour."

"I talked about it for an _hour_?"

John shook his head. "You said that I reminded you of a hedgehog."

Sherlock began to protest again, but then cut himself off, looking over John carefully. "You _do_ remind me of a hedgehog," he said wonderingly.

"What?" John said. "I don't look like-never mind. We should get you back to bed now anyways. Let's go."

John helped Sherlock to stand, and together they walked to Sherlock's room. The detective crawled into bed, and cocked his head, looking at John again.

"How could I not have seen it before, you really do look-"

"Good _night_, Sherlock." John said curtly, and he turned off the light.


	8. He's a Pirate

He's a Pirate

"Sherlock, hello? Are you here?" John called. He had just come back from the video store and found the flat empty.

There was no reply.

"Sherlock?" He moved farther into the flat, and heard a moan coming from Sherlock's room. Any other person would have panicked, thinking that perhaps Sherlock was injured or sick, but not John. He knew that moan.

He opened up the door to find Sherlock sprawled on the floor, his legs propped up against the bed, balancing a large book on his toes.

"Desperate, are we?" John asked.

"_Bored_," Sherlock complained.

"What, no corpses to dissect today?"

"Not just that," Sherlock said, kicking the book he had previously been balancing into the wall, "there is absolutely _nothing_ today. No bodies, no cases, no experiments, nothing!"

"So you decided to see if you could balance a book on your feet. Sounds entertaining."

Sherlock turned his head up to look at John, glaring at him. "Obviously I did other things first. Or attempted to, anyways."

"You could have come with me," John said. "Some fresh air probably would have helped."

Sherlock flipped over, sat up and crossed his legs in one fluid motion. He rolled his eyes at John. "Please."

"Oh, I think it would have. I may have spotted a murder on the way back."

"What? You did? Where? What happened? Let me see, John! I want to see!" Sherlock sprung to his feet, eyes wild, looking like a child who had just been offered a lifetime supply of candy.

John began to laugh. "I was only joking!"

Sherlock slumped visibly, his face falling, and he looked so disappointed that John almost regretted his joke; but then Sherlock straightened up and fixed him with that look that would make any other man head for the hills.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock hissed. "It's so _good_ to know I can always count on you to help."

He huffed angrily and flopped onto his bed, releasing a sigh. "If you are going to continue to be unhelpful, you can leave."

"Now, hold on! I dropped by the video store on the way home and got a movie, since we're both stuck here tonight."

"What, no plans?"

"No, I thought I would just stay here tonight."

"That's too bad, because Sarah called earlier. She wanted to know if you were free for dinner."

"She did? I'll go call-" John cut off, catching the mischievous expression on Sherlock's face. "Oh, you're a bad man."

Sherlock smirked, satisfied.

John cleared his throat and continued. "Anyways, I think you'll like the movie I brought."

"Honestly, if it is one of those _awful_-"

"Pirates of the Caribbean," John said almost triumphantly, holding up the case.

"Pirates of the-" Sherlock sat up immediately, his eyes lighting up; then he cut off abruptly and cleared his throat. "Good. Fine. Fine. But I expect the historical details will be all horribly wrong."

"I'm sure they will be," John said. "But I think you will still be entertained."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. "_Why_ are you so sure of that?"

"No reason," John shrugged, feigning innocence. "Just thought you might find it interesting, what with all the dead bodies and the weapons, you know."

"Right," Sherlock said slowly, staring at John, studying him carefully.

John hoped he appeared nonchalant, but he knew that Sherlock was already putting it together. He decided to get things moving along.

"Okay, so why don't we go get it started, then?" he said, gesturing to the door.

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. I suppose I have nothing else to do." He stood up, and the two of them went to the living room.

Sherlock sat heavily on the couch, sighing yet again to prove just how disinterested he was; of course, John was not fooled, but he set up the movie without comment. He then sat next to Sherlock and pressed play.

Sherlock, of course, had many comments at first, loudly noting all the mistakes-"please, there's no possible way they could have had _that_"- but slowly but surely, his comments died down as they neared the middle of the movie, and he was becoming more and more riveted by the second, eyes wide.

John leaned over. "Liking it?"

"Shut up and let me watch." Sherlock said testily, pushing John away with one hand without looking away from the screen. "Thrust! Thrust!" He commanded, demonstrating wildly.

As the movie went on, John noticed it was getting unusually cold in the flat. He forced Sherlock to pause the movie so he could find a blanket. When he returned a few minutes later, Sherlock was bouncing impatiently, muttering something unintelligible.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked as John sat down.

"I wasn't gone that long. I see someone likes the movie."

"Of course not. I am just listing all the mistakes so I can mail them to the creators." Sherlock said sourly.

"Okay." John said amiably.

Sherlock shivered suddenly as John wrapped the blanket around himself.

"Cold?" John asked.

"I'm fine. Press play."

A few minutes later, John was hardly getting any warmer, and Sherlock, though engrossed with the movie, was shivering. John realized finally that the heating must be out. When he mentioned this to Sherlock, the detective rolled his eyes and simply said "obviously", and made a comment about how unrealistic the skeletons were. John only half listened to Sherlock's rantings, he was also rather enjoying the movie.

Too soon, the movie ended, leaving both men a bit disappointed (though Sherlock had protested loudly at the kissing scene at the end-John should have warned him of the sentiment, for heaven's sakes).

"What do we do now?" Sherlock complained after checking the time (only 10:30).

John stood up. "I'm going to go check on the heating, and you can set up the second movie if you want."

"The second movie?" Sherlock cried. "There's a sequel?"

"Yes, right there on the table." John said, pointing. "And there's a third and fourth as well," he said as he turned around.

"A third and a fourth-!" Sherlock then made an odd noise that could have been a squeal-but seeing as it was Sherlock Holmes, John wasn't entirely sure. "Did you get those too?"

John turned back, and almost laughed aloud at Sherlock's eager, wide eyed expression, looking as excited as he did when he received a new case.

John shook his head. He felt like he was about to give a child the news that Santa Claus wasn't real. "Sorry, no," he said. "But we can go get them tomorrow, if you like."

Sherlock frowned. "The store isn't still open?"

"It's 10:30, so no. We can go first thing tomorrow."

Sherlock folded his arms and burrowed back into the couch. "Fine. Doesn't matter anyway. They're just movies, _John_."

Sherlock was still mumbling and grumbling when John left to go check on the heating. John came back ten minutes later, disgruntled that they were going to have to call a repairman in the morning, his fiddling had produced no results. Not only that, but it was getting steadily colder in the flat.

Sherlock was waiting impatiently for John, the movie was on and ready to play. John could see the cold was finally getting to Sherlock, the detective was curled up so tightly that John almost doubted he would ever come undone.

John sat back down next to Sherlock, wrapping his blanket around himself again. The thought occurred to him to offer Sherlock some of the blanket, but that idea wasn't very appealing-if he was going to share a blanket with anyone, he would prefer it to be a beautiful girl he was on a date with. Not only that, but he was certain Sherlock would refuse, the detective was extremely stubborn and would probably insist that he wasn't cold, he could ignore it unlike _average_ people.

Twenty minutes into the movie, John's blanket was doing little to keep him warm, and Sherlock, who was thoroughly enjoying this movie as well as the first, was now shivering violently. John sighed. He supposed the body heat would help keep the both of them warm, and it was awfully cold...

"Here," he said curtly, awkwardly offering Sherlock half of the blanket.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look.

"Oh, _honestly_, Sherlock, it's freezing. Are you going to take it or not?" John complained.

After a slight hesitation, Sherlock took it, arranging it carefully over himself. Both men shifted uncomfortably, wanting to give the other some space but at the same time wanting to move closer just for the body heat-it was ridiculously cold, after all, and they were just trying to enjoy the movie. They gave in after about five minutes, moving until they were shoulder to shoulder, pressing up against each other to keep out the cold.

Sherlock was mostly quiet for the rest of the movie, though he was much too interested about the cannibals for John's taste, and he was even more entertained by the Kraken, which John was a little frightened by. He prayed that the movie would not inspire Sherlock to experiment with sea creatures, or even further with human flesh, for that matter.

They were both frustrated by the cliffhanger ending (Sherlock cursed John loudly and rudely for not bringing the third and fourth movies home) and it caused an almost normal conversation-as normal as a conversation could be with Sherlock Holmes. It was fascinating to see how animated Sherlock became when discussing pirates-John wondered why he did not bring it up earlier, and seeing as John knew a thing or two about pirates, they could talk about it without John being berated (less than usual) for his "idiocy" and "average mind".

Eventually, though, Sherlock was suspicious of John's choice of movie once again.

"What made you choose that movie, John?"

"Hmm? Nothing. Just thought you might like it, is all."

"Why?"

John felt slightly uncomfortable as he tried to come up with a reason under Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze. "Well, I-"

"Ha!" Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Mycroft told you."

"What? No." John said immediately, but he knew that he was caught.

Sherlock snorted. "Well. I'm so glad I know I can trust my brother. It doesn't mean anything, though, it was just a silly childhood dream. Hardly relevant now, of course."

"Really?" John asked. "It looked to _me_ like you were rather enjoying the movies."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. I-I was just humouring you."

"So, you're telling me you didn't like them. Not at all." John said cynically.

"Yes."

"Not the fights, the cursed pirates, the sea creatures, nothing?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, then tossed his head irritably. "Fine. Yes. I suppose I did."

"I thought so. Now you were saying you had a theory about the third movie?"

"Of course I do. Obviously, Jack Sparrow isn't lost, like you so seem to think. In the next movie, clearly they will have to rescue him from Davy Jones' locker..." Sherlock launched into a lengthy, detailed explanation, and John got comfortable.

This was going to take awhile.

###

"Sherlock? John?" Mrs. Hudson called, stepping into their flat. "Anyone home?"

There was no answer as Mrs. Hudson moved into the flat. It was nearly noon, and she had heard absolutely no sound from the boys, which was extremely odd, so she had decided she had better check in on them.

She shivered as she walked forward. Why was it so _cold_? "Hello? Boys? Oh-" She cut off, finally seeing the two settled comfortably on the couch, snoring away. She put a hand on her heart, and quietly stepped forward to get a better look. Oh, they were just so sweet...

The two were wrapped up tightly in a thick blanket, sleeping back to back. Sherlock's head was leaning back, resting on top of John's. John's mouth was slack, and Mrs. Hudson realized that it had been only John's snoring she had heard. She didn't quite see Sherlock as the snoring type.

On the telly, there was a paused movie on the screen, showing a ship being swallowed by an enormous sea creature. Mrs. Hudson shuddered, she was never one for movies like this. The boys must have had a movie night, which she thought was rather adorable.

Mrs. Hudson walked over to the couch, and carefully adjusted the blanket for them.

"Sleep well," she said softly, and she left the flat, thinking that she ought to call the repairman about the heating.


	9. Meeting the Parents (Teaser)

**Author's Note: Fair warning, this is not a completed chapter, but a teaser of sorts, because I wanted to give you some sort of update because I will be gone this week and will not be able to properly update until I get back. I hope you still enjoy! **

"You want me to do what?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, irritated. John had been talking on the phone for about an hour now, and not very quietly either; which was rather annoying because he was trying to play.

"No, I'm not going to invite him!" John said loudly. "Here's the thing. He doesn't...I mean, he's not exactly..." John looked at Sherlock, studying him carefully, trying to decide precisely _what_ Sherlock was.

"Not exactly..._social_," John finished.

It was all too easy to see that he was talking to Harry-the woman had been insisting on meeting Sherlock for months now, and both John and Sherlock had no interest in introducing the two.

"No, I'm not avoiding bringing him because-no, Harry, that's ridiculous, it's not like that." John pressed a hand to his forehead. "Listen to me. I'm not bringing him _because_ he doesn't want to, okay? And frankly, I don't want him to either."

John paused, listening. "Alright, good. Yes, yes, I'll be there. I'll see you then. Goodbye."

"Harry is ridiculously curious about me," Sherlock commented.

"She's the not the only one," John said, slipping his phone in his pocket. "My _parents_ actually want to meet you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You don't want me to meet them?"

"_Do_ you want to meet them?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "No."

"I thought so." John nodded. "We're agreed, then. I'll be leaving for Sussex tomorrow, so I trust you won't destroy the flat while I'm away-"

"Did you say Sussex?" Sherlock asked, brightening.

"Yes...?" John's eyebrows furrowed, confused by Sherlock's sudden interest.

"I'll come." Sherlock said abruptly, and resumed playing his violin.

"What?" John choked. "A moment ago you didn't want to go!"

"Now I do," Sherlock replied vaguely, continuing to play. "Surely you wouldn't deny me the right of meeting my own flatmate's family." He smiled smugly, content to keep his reasons secret. John didn't need to know for now, and it was quite hilarious to see John get so worked up about something as silly as a family dinner.

This would likely be the only family dinner Sherlock would ever enjoy.

###

John's family was all too pleased to hear the news that his elusive flatmate, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, would be joining them for dinner. They were all too curious for John's taste (but that was nothing new), so curious that John sometimes wondered if he had been adopted. His family was incredibly nosy and liked to know every little detail of every person they came in contact with, while John was the more private type, and was content with learning things about people in their own time. Needless to say, it frustrated his family immensely when their own son and brother didn't divulge every last secret to them.

It wasn't like John was keeping Sherlock a secret, John's family knew about Sherlock and that he had a few...quirks, for the lack of a better word. This wasn't enough for the other Watsons, oh no, they needed to know _more_. John supposed they did have just a bit of a right to want to know more, his flatmate was quite the enigma, after all, but that didn't mean he was excited about bringing Sherlock to dinner. For some unfathomable reason, the detective actually wanted to come, which could mean nothing good.

The next morning, Sherlock and John headed out to Sussex, with John earnestly hoping and praying that he wouldn't regret this. That was ridiculous, because he already knew he was going to regret this.

He could hardly wait.

**Author's Note: Why does Sherlock want to come with? Hmm...let me know what you think! **


	10. Meeting the Parents (Part 1)

Meeting the Parents

"You want me to do what?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, irritated. John had been talking on the phone for about an hour now, and not very quietly either; which was rather annoying because he was trying to play.

"No, I'm not going to invite him!" John said loudly. "Here's the thing. He doesn't...I mean, he's not exactly..." John looked at Sherlock, studying him carefully, trying to decide precisely _what_ Sherlock was.

"Not exactly..._social_," John finished.

It was all too easy to see that he was talking to Harry-the woman had been insisting on meeting Sherlock for months now, and both John and Sherlock had no interest in introducing the two.

"No, I'm not avoiding bringing him because-no, Harry, that's ridiculous, it's not like that." John pressed a hand to his forehead. "Listen to me. I'm not bringing him _because_ he doesn't want to, okay? And frankly, I don't want him to either."

John paused, listening. "Alright, good. Yes, yes, I'll be there. I'll see you then. Goodbye."

"Harry is ridiculously curious about me," Sherlock commented.

"She's the not the only one," John said, slipping his phone in his pocket. "My _parents_ actually want to meet you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You don't want me to meet them?"

"Do _you_ want to meet them?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "No."

"I thought so." John nodded. "We're agreed, then. I'll be leaving for Sussex tomorrow, so I trust you won't destroy the flat while I'm away-"

"Did you say Sussex?" Sherlock asked, brightening.

"Yes...?" John's eyebrows furrowed, confused by Sherlock's sudden interest.

"I'll come." Sherlock said abruptly, and resumed playing his violin.

"What?" John choked. "A moment ago you didn't want to go!"

"Now I do," Sherlock replied vaguely, continuing to play. "Surely you wouldn't deny me the right of meeting my own flatmate's family." He smiled smugly, content to keep his reasons secret. John didn't need to know for now, and it was quite hilarious to see John get so worked up about something as silly as a family dinner.

This would likely be the only family dinner Sherlock would ever enjoy.

###

John's family was all too pleased to hear the news that his elusive flatmate, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, would be joining them for dinner. They were all too curious for John's taste (but that was nothing new), so curious that John sometimes wondered if he had been adopted. His family was incredibly nosy and liked to know every little detail of every person they came in contact with, while John was the more private type, and was content with learning things about people in their own time. Needless to say, it frustrated his family immensely when their own son and brother didn't divulge every last secret to them.

It wasn't like John was keeping Sherlock a secret, John's family knew about Sherlock and that he had a few...quirks, for the lack of a better word. This wasn't enough for the other Watsons, oh no, they needed to know 'more'. John supposed they did have just a bit of a right to want to know more, his flatmate was quite the enigma, after all, but that didn't mean he was excited about bringing Sherlock to dinner. For some unfathomable reason, the detective actually wanted to come, which could mean nothing good.

The next morning, Sherlock and John headed out to Sussex, with John earnestly hoping and praying that he wouldn't regret this.

That was ridiculous, because he already knew he was going to regret this.

He could hardly wait.

###

John was, to say the least, nervous. He had told his family that Sherlock was a bit unorthodox, but as of yet this had done nothing but make his family even more determined to meet Sherlock. He was not looking forward to their reactions when Sherlock was not everything they wanted him to be.

They arrived in Sussex around 4:00 pm, and Sherlock abruptly announced he had some business to take care of. Of course, Sherlock did not tell John what business he had, nor did he listen when John asked. He simply had the cabbie stop the car, and got out. "I'll see you in a few hours," was all he said, and he left.

If this was his way of bailing on dinner, John was going to kill him, what was he going to tell his parents, honestly, the man was so _frustrating_- John stopped himself right there, he was beginning to sound like the nagging housewife everyone thought he was, and he was not going to let _that_ happen.

John arrived at his parents' house about ten minutes later. He mentally braced himself and walked to the door.

It wasn't that he didn't love his parents-he just felt that he was always trying to keep up with what their picture of the ideal son was, and he always seemed to fall just a bit short. Harry, on the other hand, was somehow a model child-he supposed that was because their parents were strangely oblivious to her drinking habits. Even when Harry had come out to their parents, they had practically applauded her decision and her bravery and for being true to herself. John did respect Harry's decision, but he had been expecting their parents to raise more of a fuss about it.

Oddly enough, John's decision to join the army was not quite as celebrated. His father was firmly and openly against it, while his mother grudgingly accepted it after a fair amount of time had passed. His father still found time to remind him of what a bad decision he had made every now and then.

He had not seen his parents in person since he was sent home from Afghanistan. They came to see him in the hospital once, his father striding right in and giving John a lecture on how he had been right all along about the army, how his son's life was over and where did John think he was going to get a job now? He knew that deep down, his father meant well-but that didn't keep him from feeling hurt and disappointed whenever he failed to measure up to his father's expectations.

Of course he had not told Sherlock that this wasn't just any visit-this would be the first time he had seen his family since he got shot, and he had been a broken, lonely man then-hopefully his parents would see how much better he was now-had a job, had a flat, was doing well-and they would approve. That was the reason he had been hesitant about bringing Sherlock-not because of Sherlock himself, but because he didn't want his parents to judge Sherlock like they did him. It was silly, he knew, because obviously Sherlock would not care in the slightest what John's parents thought of him, or anyone, for that matter, but John felt this inane need to protect Sherlock because Sherlock certainly wasn't going to do it.

And his parents were definitely going to judge both of them if Sherlock failed to appear at dinner after it was promised that he would come.

This "business" of Sherlock's better not take too long, or else John was going to have to strangle him.

John cleared his throat and knocked on the door. As he waited, he cleared his throat again and unnecessarily brushed off his jacket. As an afterthought, he flipped up his collar. He let it be for a moment, then suddenly realized what he had just done. Was he really so nervous that he was falling to Sherlock's habits? He flipped the collar back down and cleared his throat for yet a third time.

Finally, the door opened, his mother, Kate Watson, standing in the doorway. She was wearing a blue dress and her hair was elaborately curled, and John briefly wondered if he had underdressed. Wonderful. The night hadn't even started and he had already made a mistake.

His mother's eyes flicked up and down, looking over her son. John put on what he hoped was a smile.

"John!" His mother said brightly, and she hugged him, kissing his cheek.

John smiled, a genuine one this time, and hugged her back, realizing how much he actually had missed her.

"Hello, Mum," he said.

"John, it's been so long," his mother lamented as she released him. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked him over again. "You're looking much better than-" she cut off, smiling uncomfortably. "The last time I saw you."

"It's alright, Mum, you can talk about it," he said, gesturing carelessly to his shoulder. "Really, it's fine."

"Oh, good," his mother said, relaxing. "Well, come in, dear, your father's waiting." She was about to turn, but then stopped suddenly, as if something had just occurred to her. "Where's your friend?" She asked, raising up on her tiptoes to peek over her son's shoulder, as if expecting Sherlock to be hiding behind John.

"Uh, he had some business in town to take care of. He should be along soon."

And if he wasn't, he would be facing the wrath of not just one, but four very upset Watsons.

"Oh," said his mother, looking a bit disappointed. "Oh. Well, come along then."

"Is Harry not here yet?" John asked as they started walking further into the house.

"Not yet," his mother replied. "She's on her way, though."

"Has she called?"

"No, but she said she was coming, so she'll be here."

John shook his head. If Harry was off getting drunk instead of coming to this long planned family dinner, he was not going to be happy with her, to say the least.

John and Mrs. Watson walked into the sitting room a few moments later, seeing his father, Duncan Watson, seated on one of the couches. His mother walked right in, but John hesitated, hovering at the doorway. His last meeting with his father had been comprised of yelling and arguing, mostly from his father while John lay in his hospital bed and took the abuse. Would his father want to try to make amends now? That was what this whole family dinner had been about in the first place, right?

"Well, come in," his father said, noticing John's hesitation.

"Right, okay," John said. "Okay." He came inside, feeling as if there was a spotlight glaring down on him, highlighting every little detail.

His father's scrutinizing stare only emphasized this feeling, studying him carefully.

If John was Sherlock, he would be able to tell exactly what his father was thinking. But he was not, so his father's gaze was completely unreadable.

"You look well," his father said at last. "That's good. I suppose things are going well with your...friend?"

"Dad!" John spluttered.

"Where is he, anyways?" His father asked, repeating what his wife had done, looking over John's shoulder in an attempt to find the detective. John was about to answer when the doorbell rang.

"That must be Harry!" His mother said excitedly. She rushed out to answer the door, leaving John alone with his father. They engaged in mindless small talk, neither of them wanting to address their last conversation, until Mrs. Watson and Harry appeared in the doorway.

Harry looked sober, thankfully, her short blonde hair neatly curled and she was wearing a pink dress that very closely resembled their mother's.

"Hello, John!" Harry grinned, and moved forward, her arms outstretched.

"Harry," John said, accepting her hug. "How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks," she said, stepping away. "Wow, I haven't gotten a proper look at you for months."

"And?"

"Still as ugly as ever," Harry laughed.

"Ha, ha," John said drily. His phone went off.

_Change of plans. I will be there in five minutes.  
-SH_

John bit back a sigh of relief.

_You better be.  
-JW_

"That was Sherlock," John said. "He said he'll be here in a few minutes."

The delight that crossed his family's faces was a bit too..._hungry_ for John's taste.

_Hmm, that bad?  
-SH_

_I expect it can only get worse.  
-JW_

_And you wonder why I dislike interacting with my own family. I suppose interacting with yours won't be much better.  
-SH_

John almost laughed aloud. Something they could agree on. No matter how much he loved his family, they could be rather tedious.

"What else is he saying?" His mother asked. "I do hope he likes Italian."

_You wanted to come. And my mother wants to know if Italian is okay for dinner.  
-JW_

_I was curious! Are you truly blaming me for being curious about the family that my flatmate was raised by? And fine, Italian is fine. You should know, we have it enough.  
-SH_

"Don't worry, Mum, Italian is fine," John told his mother.

_Didn't expect you to be actually interested in something other than a murder or a scandal, is all.  
-JW_

_Really, John, I'm wounded. Do you really believe me to be so shallow?  
-SH_

_You make it hard to believe otherwise, you know.  
-JW_

"Look at him," his mother said in wonderment to Harry, her voice interrupting their cellular banter.

"Yeah, he's smiling like an idiot," Harry replied. "Hey, John, do you think you can stop flirting for more than two seconds?"

John reddened and shoved his phone in his pocket. "I wasn't _flirting_," John said indignantly. "Honestly, Harry, you-"

"Alright, alright, John," Mr. Watson said, standing up. "I don't want any bickering, do you understand? We're all adults now, I thought you were past all this."

John opened his mouth to retort when the doorbell rang.

All eyes flew to John, as if they were waiting for him to say something.

"I, uh...suppose that's him...?" John said uncertainly.

His mother suddenly giggled, and Harry made an odd squeak.

"I'll get the door," both women said at once, and together they rushed off. His father nodded to John and followed after them.  
John sighed. They were not going to be singing the same tune soon enough; Sherlock would take care of that just by being himself.

And John would be left to pick up the pieces, wouldn't he?

Before heading after his family, he sent one last text to Sherlock.

_BEHAVE.  
-JW_

He stepped into the hallway, seeing his family crowded around the door.

"I'll do it," his mother said, and she opened the door.

It wouldn't have mattered how much John told them about Sherlock, anyone would have been startled by his appearance. His family stepped back simultaneously at the sight of the detective. The man had a way of looking intimidating just by standing there, tall and cold eyed in his long dark coat, his hands folded behind his back. Everything about him was just _dark_.

John's family ogled him shamelessly as he stepped inside. Sherlock returned their gaze, but with little interest, his eyes sweeping over them and their surroundings almost carelessly, his mouth in a firm line as he analyzed the Watsons. He glanced over at John, and raised a skeptical brow.

John gestured helplessly to his family and shrugged.

Sherlock tsked at this, and turned his attention back to the other Watsons.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said smoothly, holding out a gloved hand.

John almost laughed aloud at his family's expressions, looking for once uncertain of what to say or do. Sherlock continued to hold his hand out expectantly, irritation briefly flitting over his features.

"Hello," said his mother finally after an uncomfortable silence, shaking Sherlock's hand. "It's so good to meet you at last. I'm Kate Watson, and this is my husband, Duncan." She gestured to John's father, who nodded curtly and shook Sherlock's hand.

"And you must be Harry," Sherlock said, taking matters into his own hands when Harry remained in her stunned silence. Harry nodded, wide eyed, and shook his hand.

"Well, shall we go in?" John's mother said cheerily.

The others agreed and the group moved into the sitting room. Mr. and Mrs. Watson took the armchairs, and John and Sherlock sat on the couch. Harry should have taken the remaining armchair, but she seemed much more keen to sit next to Sherlock, and she squeezed into the small available space beside the detective.

Sherlock made a noise that sounded quite like a growl, trying to move away from her but finding no room. John hid his laughter with a forced, loud cough. Sherlock, of course, knew exactly what John was hiding and glared at him momentarily before turning to face John's parents.

"So, Sherlock," John's mother said. "John tells me you're a detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Watson waited for Sherlock to elaborate, perhaps share every last detail of what it meant to be a consulting detective, but as John expected, Sherlock did not go on.

There was an awkward silence, until finally Mrs. Watson realized that Sherlock had no intention of answering. "Ah...I'll go see if dinner is ready," she said, and she got up and walked out.

"So, Sherlock," Harry said, "how long have you guys been together?"

And of course Sherlock chose _that _moment to be social. "A year and a half," he answered matter-of-factly.

"No, no we haven't," John jumped in, but Harry was not listening, chortling much harder than she should have been.

Sherlock turned to John. "No, I _know_ it's been a year and a half, it's not like the day is all that difficult to remember-"

"Sherlock, she means _together_," John said, firmly emphasizing the last word, wanting Sherlock to understand without having to explain. Sherlock might be a genius, but there was just some things the man was completely in the dark about.

"Right, we have been living together for a year and a half," Sherlock insisted, speaking as if John was the biggest idiot in the world.

"When were you going to tell us about this?" Harry giggled, positively beaming. His father, on the other hand, looked absolutely livid.

"We're not together-!" John began, but was interrupted by his mother's voice.

"Dinner is ready," she said tentatively from the doorway, obviously noticing the tension in the room.

"Excellent," said Harry, leaping to her feet. "I can't wait to hear more about your 'partnership'."

"Harry-" John tried, but Harry was already prancing away after their mother. John stood up and was about to follow when a firm hand took his arm.

"We'll talk about this later," Mr. Watson whispered dangerously. He glanced over at Sherlock, and his glare deepened. "You too."

"Dad! We're not-"

"I said, _later_," John's father hissed, and he released John's arm and left.

John groaned and covered his face with his hands. This was not going well, not at all. His entire family thought he was gay and his father was already mad at him.

"Great," John said, throwing up his hands. "Now we are going to have a heart to heart talk with my father about our 'relationship'," John said angrily.

Sherlock stood up. "I don't see the problem."

"You don't see the problem-how can you not see the problem?"

"I don't see one _because_ there isn't one," Sherlock replied testily.

"Well, I am not going to explain it to you," John said. "Now come on, before Harry decides we're in here snogging."

Sherlock answered with a scoff, and the two of them left the room.

###

Sherlock didn't know exactly what he had been expecting of John's family, but he had known at least he had been expecting them to be much more like John. Instead, they were a bit too silly and nosy for Sherlock's taste-it was no wonder that John usually only interacted with them by phone. Of course, it was no question who John resembled, his friend was a spitting image of his father, but that was where the similarities ended.

The moment he had stepped into the house he knew he and John were in for a long night.

People often stared at him, most were, ah, 'put off' by the detective's appearance, but not the Watsons; in fact, they seemed creepily fascinated, which Sherlock had not been prepared for. But, John had asked him to try to behave...and though in other instances he would ignore his friend's entreaty, even he could see that doing so would be especially important this time, it was clear enough John was intimidated by his family. Sherlock found this ridiculous, in fact, he believed it should be the other way around. John was far less annoying and a much better companion than any member of his family would be, (or anyone else) though perhaps Sherlock was a bit biased.

But he was a tad interested about John's father. The man was obviously very critical of all of John's choices, but why? As far as Sherlock was concerned, most people would look at John and say he had made many very good choices, but Mr. Watson seemed to think the complete opposite.

"Garlic bread, Sherlock?" Mrs. Watson's voice interrupted his thoughts, and she shoved a basket of bread underneath his nose.

"Mm? No," Sherlock said shortly, nose wrinkling in disgust, and received a nudge from his flatmate. "I mean...no thank you."

Mrs. Watson smiled. "Of course. Here, John." She handed John the basket, which he took willingly.

"So does your job pay much, Sherlock?" Mr. Watson said, pouring himself a drink. "I suppose it would, John wouldn't be able to contribute much with money, what with his army pension and all." Sherlock did not miss the pointed look Mr. Watson gave his son, and nor did John. Sherlock was also the only one to hear John's reaction, only a small, frustrated exhalation, but other than that he gave no sign that he noticed his father's jab.

So Mr. Watson also did not approve of John's time in the army. Interesting.

"Not much," Sherlock replied. "But John is more than able to make up the difference." He nodded once.

"Oh, really?" Mr. Watson said. He was skeptical, Sherlock could tell by the slight curl of his mouth. Did he truly believe his son incapable of supporting himself? "You were able to find a job, then, John? Even with...you know."

"Yes," John said tersely. Ah, they have had this conversation before. John was trying his best to hide his frustration, but it was quite obvious, at least, to Sherlock anyways. He found he could read John's moods much better than anyone else could, so his family was most likely oblivious.

"Good, good," said John's father. "That's good." He paused, nonchalantly twirling his fork in his pasta. "So, John, when were you going to tell us about you and Sherlock? All we heard was that you were flatmates."

A rough laugh escaped Sherlock's lips before he could stop it.

"We're not dating," John said, exasperated.

"How would we even know?" John's father said harshly. "You never bother to tell us anything, do you?"

"Duncan," Mrs. Watson said warningly, but Mr. Watson ignored her.

"I don't want to do this with you right now," John said. Though he was a picture of calm, Sherlock knew otherwise.

"We didn't even hear about the army until the day before you left," Mr. Watson said bitterly.

"Oh, _there _it is," John said, practically throwing his silverware onto the table. "You just can't let that go, can you?"

"Of course not! We never get to know anything about you, because you always hide everything until it's forced out into the open! Is it such a crime to want to know about my son's life?"

"Maybe if you didn't get so angry whenever I do tell you things I would actually _want_ to share with you! And now! Now you're accusing me of having a secret relationship with my flatmate, and it's just ridiculous! It's just going too far!" John said, slamming a fist on the table, face red.

There was an awkward silence as son and father stared each other down.

"Is that really what you think?" Mr. Watson said, his voice almost a hiss. "Really, John-"

"You know what, I don't want to hear it," John said loudly, his voice increasing in volume with each word, "I just don't want to hear it, okay? I don't want to hear about how much I've failed as a son anymore, just _stop_! And you know what else-"

"John!" Sherlock interrupted, grabbing his arm.

"What?!" John snapped.

"Let's go cool off, shall we? Come on, up you get," Sherlock said calmly, pulling both he and John to their feet. John grumbled, but allowed Sherlock to take him out of the room.

They left the dining room and went into the hallway. Sherlock opened the first door he saw (which happened to be a closet) and dragged John inside, whose grumbling was getting louder and Sherlock thought he heard a few curse words here and there. Sherlock slammed the door shut, and released John's arm.

"I _swear_, one of these days I am going to shoot him," John snarled, pacing back and forth in the tiny space available, breathing fast and hard. "He never cares what I say, but gets angry when I 'keep' things from him. Oh, and of course he thinks I'm having a relationship with you behind his back, he would just love to think that I'm doing something else wrong that he can yell at me about!"

As John spoke, his words were becoming more frenzied and loud, pacing back and forth faster and faster, until Sherlock knew he needed to interfere. He seized John by the shoulders, pushing him against the wall. "You need to stop talking and take a breath," he ordered firmly. "_Now_."

John began to protest, but Sherlock silenced him with a glare.

"Fine," John growled, and he obeyed, forcing himself to take deep, long breaths.

"Better," Sherlock said approvingly.

John took another deep breath, then groaned. "Ugh...I'm sorry, I overreacted. It's just that...my dad makes me so...so-"

"Mental? Unhinged?" Sherlock suggested airily, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

John chuckled drily. "Sounds about right." He leaned his head against the wall, and then shook it. "Bloody ridiculous."

"Understandable," Sherlock said mildly. "You don't feel like you measure up to your parents' expectations," he observed, "which is why you really don't tell them about yourself because you're afraid of disappointing them."

"Since when did you become a therapist?" John asked after a small, surprised pause, but his tone was light.

"Just observing," Sherlock answered simply.

"I know. And, um, you can let go of me now."

"Oh, right." Sherlock nodded, and he removed his hands.

They were both quiet for a few minutes, only the sound of their breathing filling the silence.

"Are you alright, then?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Yeah, I'm alright," John said. "Just don't know how I'm going to finish this dinner."

"Ah, that. I suppose we will have to go back eventually."

"Right," John agreed. "And here I was thinking that _you_ were the one who was going to make dinner awkward."

"There's still time for that," Sherlock replied. "Though nothing I have done has repelled your family yet, it is actually quite irritating."

"Yeah, they love you." John said. "But don't worry, I'm sure you'll do something to insult them soon enough."

"One can only hope."

**Author's Note: Sorry about the wait, but hopefully it was worth it and that you all enjoyed! This was originally going to be a oneshot just like the others, but I decided it needed a Part Two, so that will be coming up next! **

**Also, again to those who are waiting on Not the John Watson You Know, Chapter 10 should be up soon, what with being gone and working on this chapter I haven't had much time to work on it, but I will work as fast as I can!**

**Please do let me know what you think, I very much appreciate hearing your feedback and your comments! Thank you all! **


	11. Meeting the Parents (Part 2)

**Author's Note: I apologize for taking so long, I had a bit of writer's block with this chapter, but I finally was able to get past it and finish this part. After this, I will be going back to doing just oneshots as usual. Enjoy and review! :)**

Meeting the Parents (Part 2)

Sherlock allowed John a few more minutes to collect himself, then innocently suggested they return to dinner. Fortunately, John had calmed down considerably and agreed, though a bit hesitantly.

Sherlock pushed open the door and they stepped out, and were about to head for the dining room when John abruptly stopped.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"We...just came out of the closet," John said, grinning ridiculously.

"Yes, John, quite astute. We'll make a detective out of you yet," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Come on." He started walking towards the dining room.

"We just came _out _of the _closet_," John repeated slowly, and began to laugh. "We literally came out of the closet."

Sherlock swore and stopped. "What are you on about?"

"I'm just saying, it's ironic. Don't you know the phrase 'come out of the closet'?"

"No, and obviously if I ever did I deleted it," Sherlock said sourly, as John continued to giggle. The detective began walking again and this time John followed, chuckling to himself and repeating the phrase 'come out of the closet'.

Sherlock shook his head. Sometimes he just did not understand people and their odd little brains.

"Wait, stop," Sherlock said, hushing John as they approached the dining room door. "Your parents."

Sherlock could hear John's parents arguing loudly from the dining room. They moved up to the door and each took a side, listening in. Sherlock took a quick peek and saw that Harry was no longer in the room.

"-I don't care, Duncan, you're always putting so much pressure on him! It's no wonder we hardly get to see him or hear from him, because he's afraid of _you_."

"Afraid of me? Kate, I don't think-"

"Yes, Duncan, afraid! Have you watched him today? He has had to defend himself to you all day long, especially about his friend!"

"Are we sure he's just a friend?" Mr. Watson scoffed.

"If John says he is, then he is," Mrs. Watson said. "And you know what, Duncan, I don't really care whether he is or not, this is the happiest I have seen John in a long, long time. Don't you want John to be happy?"

"Of course I want him to be happy," said Mr. Watson indignantly, "I just don't want him to spend the rest of his life playing sidekick to Sherlock Holmes. I've researched him, it's obvious he only sees John as a kind of a pet-"

Sherlock had had enough. Despite John's protests, he strode inside. "_So_ sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help but overhear." He turned back, surprised to see John hadn't followed him. "John?"

"What?" John said, voice muffled, sounding much like a child who had been caught misbehaving.

"Come in here."

Sherlock heard John sigh, and then moments later the doctor stepped into the room.

"Yes?" John said uncertainly, glancing nervously at his parents once before looking back at Sherlock.

"Do you think you're just my sidekick?"

John's eyebrows furrowed, that same old expression that meant _is-this-a-trick-question-because-I-think-you'r-try ing-to-trick-me-again _coming on his face, studying the detective carefully. "No," he said quite reluctantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. If John wasn't so ridiculously flustered by his parents, he would see the detective was trying to help.

"Good, neither do I. No, not a sidekick at all, but a valuable asset to myself and my work. Now, is there anything else you would like to know, since we're being honest with one another?" Sherlock said snidely, addressing John's parents. "Perhaps we can talk about the fact that you think I see John as a pet, or maybe even the ridiculous notion that him being in the army was a waste of time." He finished, glowering at Mr. and Mrs. Watson. He didn't care whether they were John's parents or the king and queen of England themselves, no one spoke about John in that way.

John's parents stared back at him openmouthed, shocked. Good, he had finally succeeded in getting them to shut up. He looked over at John briefly, who was watching the scene with great interest.

"How would you know that-" John's father began.

"It's painfully obvious, which makes it even more clear you have even less deduction skills than your son," Sherlock said condescendingly. "I thought his lack was tragic enough, but now that I have met _you_, his look significantly better by comparison."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Watson asked angrily.

Sherlock ignored this and went on. "Let's put those foolish ideas of yours to rest, shall we?" Sherlock sneered. "First of all I have no use for anything that is in any way like a pet. If John had been like one, I would not have tolerated it, and would have got rid of him long ago."

Mr. Watson opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock went on, talking over him. "And as for the army, John has acquired a skill set from his time there that has saved both our lives and the lives of others on numerous occasions, and has proved very useful in our line of work. Now, Mr. Watson," said Sherlock coolly, staring hard at him, "do you still think John being in the army was a waste of time?"

All eyes moved to Mr. Watson, who had turned a deep shade of crimson. "I...well...he..." Mr. Watson stammered, cringing under Sherlock's cold stare.

"I'm sure there would be many people, myself included, who would disagree." Sherlock added, daring John's father to say otherwise. He glanced over briefly at John, who looked extremely pleased and embarrassed all at once.

Mrs. Watson nudged her husband and cleared her throat loudly. "Duncan," she said pointedly.

"John," Mr. Watson said after a slight hesitation. "May I speak with you outside for a moment?"

John looked dumbfounded, obviously he had been expecting another angry retort and not an offer to talk things out. He nodded, and he and his father walked out of the room and into the hallway.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had meant to make sure John's father knew he was wrong, not give him a chance to decide to be sentimental. Not only that, but they had left him alone with John's mother, who was eyeing him like a piece of meat again, which Sherlock did not appreciate.

"Curse you, John Watson," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" Mrs. Watson asked cheerily.

"Oh, nothing."

###

The entire talk lasted about two minutes, consisting of a hasty, almost reluctant apology that wasn't quite an apology, but John was happy to take it, because it was a start. His problems with his father were definitely far from over, but that was fine with him; at least they were getting somewhere.

He and his father returned to the dining room to see Sherlock practically running away from his mother, who was bombarding him with questions. If there was anything in the world that made Sherlock uncomfortable, it was people who pried too much into his personal business, and Mrs. Watson was the nosiest, stubborn, determined person John knew; Sherlock had definitely met his match. He usually drove off these kind of people by insults and deductions, but Mrs. Watson was unfazed, which didn't surprise John at all.

Well, Sherlock had stepped up for him...the least he could do was return the favor.

He walked over to them, and took his mother's arm. "Don't you think it's time for dessert, Mum?"

"Oh, yes, you're right," Mrs. Watson said, and John glanced over at Sherlock, who was actually looking immensely relieved.

John's mother turned to go, then stopped, looking around. "Oh, where's Harry?"

"On the phone with her new girlfriend," Sherlock said casually, straightening his cuffs.

John had to resist the urge to slap a hand to his forehead. Wanting to not risk her 'perfect child' status, Harry had not told their parents about leaving and divorcing Clara, and had only confided in John about it. It _had_ been a secret...until now.

Mrs. Watson blinked up at Sherlock, stunned, but then pulled herself together. "Oh, you mean with Clara," she said brightly.

John shot Sherlock a warning look, but his friend ignored him. "No...I mean with her new girlfriend. It's the anniversary of her divorce from Clara and they plan to celebrate it, probably at a pub downtown."

"Divorce?" Mrs. Watson said incredulously. "No, no, that's not right at all, Harry and Clara aren't divorced, you must be mistaken-"

"No, I'm not," said Sherlock curtly, smirking. "Harry and Clara have been divorced for how long, John, a year, would you say?"

John shook his head rapidly, eyes widening, trying to warn Sherlock and stop him from not only revealing all of Harry's secrets but also from revealing that John had known everything all along and had kept it to himself. And of course that idiot knew exactly how long they had been divorced, he just liked to rile John up.

"You knew, John?" Mrs. Watson said, turning to John.

_I am going to kill you, Sherlock..._

"No!" John said desperately, but he knew he was caught. "Ah, look at the time, looks like we're going to have to take that dessert to go, Mum," he said, laughing nervously.

"But, John-" Mrs. Watson protested.

"This has been a lovely evening, thank you, Mum and Dad-"

"Truly lovely," Sherlock said sarcastically, but only John noticed the sarcasm.

"-but we really do need to get home," John said. "Come on, Sherlock." Surprisingly, the detective obeyed, and they headed for the front door, John's parents trailing behind.

"Wait just a moment, I'll get you some dessert," Mrs. Watson said, and she hurried off.

They had just made it to the front door when Harry walked in. "Are you leaving already, John?"

"Yes, terribly sorry, have to rush," John said quickly.

Mrs. Watson returned with a styrofoam container with two pieces of cheesecake inside, and she handed it to Sherlock, with a smile and what looked like a wink; but it was gone before John could tell for sure. Sherlock grudgingly took the container, his usual uncomfortable fake smile on his face.

"Oh, Harry," Mrs. Watson said innocently, turning to her daughter, "John was just telling us about _Clara_." She gave Harry a pointed look, raising an eyebrow and tapping her foot impatiently. Harry's mouth dropped open, and her eyes flicked over to meet John's, then narrowed suspiciously.

"Let's go, Sherlock," John said anxiously.

"I couldn't agree more," Sherlock replied, and they hastily bid the Watsons goodbye, leaving them to their arguing.

###

On the ride home, Sherlock retreated into his Mind Palace, he had been subjected to far too much pleasantries and social interaction for one evening, so the trip was quiet. John eventually fell asleep against the car window, and the next thing he knew, they were pulling up to 221B Baker Street.

John paid the cabbie and they went into the flat, both feeling bleary from the taxi ride home, but not ready for sleeping quite yet, so John suggested having the cheesecake his mother had given them. Sherlock actually agreed, and they set down in the living room (because the kitchen at that time was not a good place for eating-Sherlock still had not cleaned up the mess from his last experiment) to eat it.

"So," John asked after taking a bite of the cheesecake, "are you going to tell me what top secret business you had today?"

Sherlock waved his fork lazily. "No matter, it fell through," he said, disappointment tinging his voice. He took the first bite of his cheesecake, and his eyes widened.

"What?" John asked.

"This is delicious," Sherlock said wonderingly. "Perhaps it was worth it to go to your family dinner after all."

"Never thought I would hear you say that," John replied.

"About your family?"

"No, the cheesecake."

"I _do_ eat," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I am just... more selective than most."

"Right. But seriously, what was the business? What are you not telling me?"

Sherlock tsked, taking another bite of cheesecake. "Careful now, you're beginning to sound like your mother."

"Ha, ha," John said, flicking a piece of cheesecake at the detective.

Sherlock dodged it, and the bit of dessert flew over his shoulder. In response, he simply said "childish" and returned to his own dessert.

"Come on, just spit it out already," said John irritably.

"Alright, fine," said Sherlock. "I had to see a man about some bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes, a black and yellow striped insect, you know the kind, don't you?" Sherlock replied mockingly.

"I mean, what were you planning on doing with the bees?"

"Like I said, it doesn't matter, it fell through," Sherlock said lightly.

"You were willing to sit through that entire dinner just because of some _bees_?" John asked incredulously.

"It was an...interesting night, certainly. And I was truly a bit curious about the family who was responsible for raising John Watson."

"And now?"

"I don't like them."

"I thought so. Speaking of my family, that was _quite_ a speech you gave my dad." John said, feigning nonchalance.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said carelessly, brushing John off. "Your father was just horribly and completely wrong, I was simply correcting him."

"Well, it certainly shut him up. I've been trying to do that for years."

Sherlock snorted, as if saying that of course it was no surprise he was able to do something in one night that John had never been able to do.

"Well," said John, finishing off the last of his cheesecake, "I have to go to work in the morning, so I should probably get to bed. Good night."

"Good night," Sherlock said, and John turned to leave.

"You should know," Sherlock said airily, "that your parents _are_ proud of you."

"What?" John said, turning back to look at Sherlock, who was now perched by his microscope.

"You heard me," Sherlock said, not looking at him. "I'm not saying it again."

"I don't know, Sherlock," said John. "They didn't sound all that proud to me."

"Well, then you weren't _looking_ hard enough," Sherlock replied. "Good night, John."

"Good night," John said, shaking his head in amazement, walking up to his room. His flatmate never ceased to surprise him.

"Make sure to keep your window open," Sherlock called after him. "This experiment might have an unpleasant odor."

It was good to know some things never changed.


	12. Last Friday Night

**Author's Note: Wow, it's been a long time since I last updated this-thank you for all the reviews you guys have sent in my absence, Not the John Watson You Know has been keeping me very busy. I hope you enjoy this! This story was, if you can't already tell, inspired by the Katy Perry song "Last Friday Night".**

Last Friday Night

"Welcome to the Plaza Hotel, your name, please?" The clerk said brightly from behind the front desk.

John looked to the side, but Sherlock was gone. He turned to see Sherlock far off on the other side of the lobby, staring at a young man seated not far from him.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes," John said. "Oi, Sherlock!" He called to the detective, who looked startled, then disgruntled at being interrupted. "Get over here!"

Sherlock sighed, but came over. "What."

"ID please, Mr. Holmes," said the clerk.

Sherlock made a 'mmph' noise and pulled out his wallet, and showed his ID to the clerk.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes." The clerk turned to his computer and began typing. A few moments later, he made a satisfied sound. "Here you are, Mr. Holmes. Room 1021." The clerk looked up at them, eyes widening slightly. "Oh! When was the big day?"

"The big what?" John asked, bewildered.

"Oh, sorry, I'm sure it's none of my business," said the now flustered clerk. "I just noticed that you had the-well." He cleared his throat. "Here is your room key," he continued, handing over a red plastic keycard, "and you boys have a nice stay. Enjoy yourselves tonight!"

Sherlock was already heading towards the lift, so John took the card from the clerk and followed after his friend.

"That was odd," he commented when he caught up with Sherlock.

"What was?" Sherlock replied distractedly.

"Never mind."

Sherlock had gotten the call a few days before about the case here in Cardiff-he had booked a night here and made all the arrangements himself for once, which was a rare thing and actually quite nice, so John had been in a good mood as they traveled earlier that morning, and leaving Sherlock irritated because he had to deal with the "irrevocably stupid hotel staff". But Sherlock was usually irritated about at least one thing or another, so John wasn't too bothered.

The two stepped into the lift, and John pressed the button for the tenth floor. "Got us a good room, then, I suppose?" John observed as the lift began to move upwards.

"Hmm?"

"We're on the top floor, the nicer rooms generally tend to be higher."

"Yes, I suppose."

The lift stopped, and the doors opened. They stepped out, and John consulted the sign. "Our room is this way," he said, pointing to the right, and they walked down the corridor until they found the correct door.

"Here we are." John inserted the keycard, and opened the door, and was greeted by a terrifying sight. The room was enormous, with a fluffy, silk white bed in the middle of the room. There were flowers everywhere, rose petals scattered across the bed and large bouquets of of them around the room, and a large Jacuzzi in the corner. There was a table set up, with yet more flowers, two glasses of champagne, and a sealed letter. All in all, the room was nauseatingly romantic.

John swore loudly and turned to his flatmate. "_Sherlock_," He growled. "What. Did. You. Do."

Sherlock, meanwhile, looked just as shocked and disgusted by the room as John was. "I had nothing to do with this," Sherlock said. "This has to be a mistake."

"It better be a mistake!" John cried. "Sherlock, you got us a _honeymoon_ suite!"

Sherlock made a strangled noise that sounded a lot like gagging, and John was disturbingly happy to see that Sherlock was suffering as much as he was.

"I'm going to go the front desk and see if we can get a different room," said John. "You stay here."

Sherlock shook his head, glancing around critically at the room. "No, I'm coming with you."

"Alright, fine, let's go, then." John said, and the two made their escape.

###

"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, but there are simply no more available rooms," said the clerk apologetically. "Is there a problem with the suite?"

Sherlock stepped in before John could answer. "It's the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. It's a nightmare," he said, and John couldn't help agreeing with him for once; the room would embarrass any male with any level of testosterone.

The clerk blinked, surprised. "We had the room specifically cleaned just before your arrival-"

"There has to be something you can do," John said desperately.

"I'm sorry, there is simply no vacancy," the clerk said coldly. "I'm afraid your only options are to keep the room you have, or find a different hotel altogether."

Sherlock was positively glowering, but the clerk was unfazed. "Enjoy your stay," he said dismissively, and waved them away.

Defeated, they trudged their way back up to their stupidly frilly room, muttering the whole way. The sight of it wasn't any better the second time.

After they put their bags away, Sherlock went into the bathroom, and John sat heavily on the bed.

"_It never ends_!" Sherlock yelled suddenly from the bathroom, making John jump.

"Sherlock!" John shouted back angrily, getting up and walking over to see what was the matter. "Don't scream like that unless something is actually-oh." John cut off, eyes widening at the sight of the bathroom, which was somehow even frillier than the bedroom. "I...need a drink." He decided, backing out of the room. He walked over to the table, taking one of the glasses of champagne and downing it in one go.

When he finished, he saw Sherlock standing on the other side of the table, the other glass of champagne in his hand.

"I thought you didn't drink." John said breathily.

"I'm making an exception," Sherlock said simply, taking a sip. After a second sip, he grimaced and looked at John. "People actually _pay_ to have a honeymoon in this kind of room?"

"Yep," John said, wishing he had not drunk the champagne so fast. "It's supposed to be romantic."

Sherlock snorted. "_Romantic_," he said disapprovingly, as if it were a dirty word.

"This is your fault, you know," John said.

"It most certainly is not!" Sherlock said indignantly. "It's not my fault that I was put on the phone with the most incompetent person on the hotel staff!"

John scoffed and began to head toward the door.

"He was a complete idiot-where are you going?"

"The bar-I need a drink."

"You just had one."

"I know."

Sherlock looked at John, the room, then back to John. "I'll go with you."

"Yeah, I thought so."

###

Ten minutes later, John was polishing off his second glass.

"You know we have work to do tomorrow, yes?" Sherlock asked after John ordered another glass, and without asking had ordered one for the detective.

"Of course I do," said John. "Ah, thank you," he said approvingly as the bartender returned with their drinks. "Don't worry about it." He pushed the other glass toward Sherlock. "I'm not going to get drunk, I'm not Harry. I know what my limit is."

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, taking a drink anyways, and also noticing he was suddenly feeling quite sluggish...

"Yes, and I promise I'll stop far before I reach it." John said, then put a hand to his head.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"...Nothing." He shook his head, then grinned. "Well," he said, raising his glass, "to the honeymoon we never wanted to have. May it never, _ever_ happen again."

Sherlock made an approving noise, then clicked glasses with John, and they both drank.

And that was the last thing either of them remembered.

###

The first thing Sherlock realized was that his head _hurt_.

_What happened? _

He tried to think, but was met only with blackness and blurred images he didn't understand, racing through his mind and disappearing again.

Someone groaned quite pitifully, and it took a moment to realize it had been him. He opened his eyes, then shut them again against the blinding light, his head pounding mercilessly. After a moment, he tried again, opening them more slowly this time, and his eyes more or less adjusted to the light, at least enough to keep them open.

Flowers.

So he was in the honeymoon suite.

He was lying on his back on the fluffy white bed, tucked under the thick covers. He suddenly noticed that his chest was...colder than the rest of his body, and he moved the covers aside to look himself over, and groaned when he realized the coldness was due to him missing his shirt...what had he done with it? He tried to remember, but it was as though there was a wall blocking him from accessing any memories, an unintentional gate in his mind palace. He was wearing one yesterday...when they arrived here in...well, _here_. He knew he was in the honeymoon suite, but for the life of him he could not remember the name of this bloody hotel. He pressed a hand to his head, trying to dull the pain.

_Think, Sherlock, think,_ he commanded himself.

"Ohhh..." a voice moaned from beside him. Sherlock startled, which caused his head to twinge horribly.

"John?" He asked in disbelief, his voice thick and hoarse, moving to see.

John himself was laying beside him, slowly beginning to stir. After a moment, he blinked, then slowly opened his eyes.

Almost simultaneously, the two men sat up, studying each other. John seemed confused, not truly registering that Sherlock was there, eyes bleary and bloodshot.

John winced, and reached up to gingerly touch the large, swollen bump on his head that Sherlock had just noticed. He groaned again, then looked over at Sherlock, finally noticing the detective was there. His eyes widened slightly, then looked him over, and froze when he noticed Sherlock's lack of a shirt.

Suddenly, John screamed, startling Sherlock so badly he screamed back, fumbling and falling off the bed. With their brains being so muddled, they were trapped in a screaming match for the next minute, taking turns screaming at each other.

The screaming woke Sherlock up a bit, at any rate, he was able to think just a little clearer. "What's wrong with you?" He shouted, heaving himself slowly to his feet. "You scared me to death-"

John, however, was not listening, looking disturbed. "Everyone was right!" He wailed, throwing his hands in the air. "'Everyone was _right_!'"

"What are you on about?" Sherlock demanded to know.

John was breathing hard, looking at Sherlock but not meeting his eyes. "Don't you see?" He gestured wildly to Sherlock and the bed. "They were right, I'm gay! I don't want to be gay-"

"You're not gay!" Sherlock roared indignantly. Honestly, he was getting tired of John's constant paranoia.

"Get me my gun," John said seriously.

"What?"

"Get. Me. My. Gun."

"I'm not going to get you your gun," Sherlock said. "Pull yourself together!"

"Sherlock, we woke up in bloody bed together!" John shouted, then he groaned. "Sherlock, kill me..."

Sherlock was trying to keep calm, trying to remember last night's events, when he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. He was pale and tired looking, a large purple bruise over his right eye, standing out horribly against his pale skin. Then something else odd caught his attention.

Slowly, he moved over to the mirror, touching his mouth, finally spotting a series of odd rose colored marks on his lips. Was that blood?

Ah.

No, that was not blood at all...but lipstick.

"For one thing, John," he said calmly, "you don't wear lipstick, do you?"

"Of course not," came the angry, muffled reply, John was now on the ground, scrabbling under the bed for his gun.

The sight of the lipstick on his mouth unexpectedly triggered a memory-

_"I dare you," John said loudly."I bet you're scared because you can't do it."_

_"I can too," Sherlock said indignantly. "You think I can't do it?"_

_"I think you can't do it," John slurred, nearly sloshing his drink on himself. _

_"Fine. I'll prove it to you." Sherlock stood up unsteadily, and gripped onto the counter for support. He looked over the crowd for a suitable candidate. Ah, her. She was drunk and was juggling two different boyfriends, she was obviously the type to not mind participating in this dare. _

_"Excuse me," he said to her as she passed by, and she stopped to look at him, her eyes unfocused. "My friend here seems to think I am unable to kiss a woman, and I would like to prove him wrong." _

_The woman looked him over, and gave an approving nod. "Okay." _

_Sherlock, of course, had no real desire to kiss her-but he did so enjoy proving John wrong, and his mind was so addled with alcohol he didn't even care that he didn't actually want to kiss her. Before he could react though, she had grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him forwards, and their lips met in a very awkward kiss. His point proven, Sherlock tried to move away, but the girl still had a firm grip on his collar, unwilling to stop. _

_Sherlock didn't try to resist only because he couldn't-he was feeling quite unsteady, sluggish, and not really in control-which he would be bothered by if he was more sober. When she let him go, he stumbled back to John, triumphant. "Told you," he said childishly, practically falling back into his chair, and the two of them burst into a fit of drunken giggles. _

"Then you have nothing to worry about," Sherlock said, turning to show John his mouth. "Oh, for _goodness_ sake-will you forget about the gun?" He meant to walk forward and pull John up off the floor-but his body had other plans. The moment he took a step, his entire body revolted, and he was overtaken by a wave of dizziness and nausea. He froze in place.

"Get to the bathroom, Sherlock," John commanded.

"I'm not going to throw up." Sherlock replied stubbornly, but he didn't feel as confident as he sounded. He stumbled his way over to the bed, and sat down, vainly hoping it would help.

"Okay." John said from his position on the floor. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I can't get up."

Sherlock laid back on the bed, focusing on _not _ vomiting, and he groaned. "What do you expect _me_ to do about it?"

"Help me up, you bloody idiot. Or..." He trailed off, obviously trying to think of a good threat. "Or...I'll throw up in your coat."

"What?" Sherlock said. "You don't even have my coat. You're bluffing."

John's hand popped up over the bed, holding a fistful of Sherlock's coat. "Am I?"

Sherlock swore, sitting up. "Curse you, John."

Gingerly, he moved off the bed, as to not further increase the nausea, and slipped onto the floor behind John. "I hate you," Sherlock commented.

"Just get me up," John replied testily.

Sherlock grudgingly put his arms around John and pulled upwards. His efforts were futile, however, and the next moment they were falling back to the floor.

"What happened last night?" John asked, wrapping his arms around his stomach, with a slight moan. "I feel like I've been run over by a bloody train."

Sherlock was about to reply when his phone rang. The sound did no good at all for his headache, and he winced. Beside him, John let out a very un-manly whimper, pressing his hands to his head.

Just to get the phone to shut up, (and also knowing whoever was calling would try again if he didn't) he went to answer the phone, though it did require a bit of a search. He finally found it on the floor by Jacuzzi, which strangely enough was full of water now. He decided he might be better off not knowing as he picked up the phone.

"This better be _important_," Sherlock hissed as way of greeting.

_"Sherlock, is that you? You sound bloody terrible_," Lestrade said.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped. "I assume you didn't call me to check up on my health."

Lestrade sighed. "_You're at the Plaza hotel, aren't you_?"

Ah! Now Sherlock remembered the name. "That's the one," he said shortly.

"_Well, there was a murder there last night and I'd like you to check it out-I'll be there shortly, I'm heading there now_."

Despite the splitting headache and the present desire to stay on the floor for, well, ever-Sherlock was never one to be able to resist a case.

"Fine," he sighed. "Where?"

"_Hotel security will direct you,_" Lestrade said. "_See you in a few_." He hung up, and Sherlock unceremoniously threw the phone across the room, but with how little strength he had, the phone just fell with a clatter about two feet away.

"Get dressed, John," Sherlock said, trying to muster up some excitement. "We have a case."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"_Now_."

John sighed heavily, and stood up slowly. "Fine," he said, drawing out the I. Stiffly, he walked over to the closet and opened it up.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, sitting down on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

"Our suitcases...they're not here." John said slowly.

"What do you mean they're not there?"

"I mean they're not here, Sherlock!" John said irritably, turning around to face him. "Someone stole them-or _we_ did something with them-" He cut off, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Is that your _shirt_?" He pointed to the Jacuzzi.

"Of course not-" Sherlock began, but cut off when he saw that it was indeed his purple shirt floating in the water. "No!" Sherlock said, horrified, as he yanked the now soaked shirt out of the water. Heaven help him...it was the only thing he had to wear, and he couldn't go down shirtless.

"It will have to do," he said after a moment of the both of them staring at the dripping shirt.

"You can't wear that," John protested.

"Do you have any better ideas?" Sherlock said icily, fixing John with a cold glare.

"No..."

"Then it will have to do," Sherlock repeated, and as uncomfortable as it was, he pulled on the shirt, and buttoned it up with as much dignity as he could. John suddenly burst out laughing, and he seemed unable to stop, bent over and clutching his stomach, giggling uncontrollably.

"Get a hold of yourself," Sherlock scolded, but this didn't deter John.

"No one...is going to...to take you seriously...like that," John gasped out after his fit of laughter finally ended.

"You don't look all that good yourself," Sherlock said, just as he realized he still had the lipstick on his face-that would have to be taken care of. He headed to the bathroom to clean it off, ignoring John's second fit of the giggles, which was triggered by John finally recollecting the same memory Sherlock had earlier of the kiss.

"I can't believe you actually kissed her!" John called to Sherlock, still chortling.

This was going to be a long day.

###

It was quite comical, really, to see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stagger onto the scene like a pair of hobbling old men, looking ready to keel over at any moment. After Lestrade had called, John had rung back and warned him they were a little hungover, but this was even better than the detective inspector had expected. Sherlock was the funniest-he looked rather like a drowned cat, his expression venomous and his shirt dripping water onto his trousers. John was almost as good-he looked so much like a zombie the inspector almost expected him to start moaning "brrrraaaiiinnsss".

"Hello," Lestrade greeted them heartily. "Have a fun night last night?"

"Be quiet, Lestrade," Sherlock hissed, while John clutched his head. "Stop shouting so much, it's too early for that."

Lestrade checked his watch. "It's 1 pm."

"Whatever," Sherlock snapped. "Just stop being so loud."

"Okay," Lestrade said, only lowering his voice a tiny bit. "Well, the body is over here if you want to take a look-"

"Okay!" John said suddenly. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I am going to sit this one out."

"John-!"

"I swear, if I have to hear anything more about dead bodies, my head is going to explode and I am going to _vomit_ all over the crime scene!" John said, throwing his hands up in the air. "Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go in that corner over there and wait to _die_."

Lestrade expected Sherlock to yell at John for being melodramatic, but instead he was staring almost wistfully after John as the doctor hobbled away, looking like he wanted nothing more than to die with John in the corner.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "Are you ready or not?"

"Ready," the detective answered a bit reluctantly. He followed Lestrade over to the body, a young man who had his head smashed in.

Sherlock looked a little green as he stepped closer to examine the body, which was definitely odd because corpses never made the detective nauseous. He didn't let this faze him though, he seemed to feel a bit better as he looked over the body and started rattling off all his deductions at top speed as always. He picked up the man's wallet.

"He was married, but seeing someone else, that was why he was out here in the first place, to meet her. But something went wrong and-" Sherlock cut off suddenly, eyes widening slightly.

"What? What went wrong?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat and started again. "Something went wrong and-oh my g-" He took off like a shot, making a beeline for the door, causing panicked officers to practically jump out of his way. Suddenly, he veered left and stopped at a potted plant, which he promptly vomited into. John, slumped against the wall in his corner, was putting his head between his knees and panting heavily. The sight of his friend vomiting had obviously done no good for his own nausea.

Lestrade wrinkled his nose in disgust. If those two weren't the most pathetic sight he had ever seen, he didn't know what was.

Sherlock straightened up, trying to look as dignified as a man could be after vomiting in public in front of the whole police department, and attempted to straighten out his hopelessly wrinkled shirt. He began to walk back, when he froze again and dashed back to the potted plant, vomiting yet a second time.

"Sherlock, if you can't hold it in, you should probably leave," Lestrade called. As much as he would like the detective's help, he wasn't going to do much good if all he was going to do was contaminate the crime scene.

"I'm fine," Sherlock choked, still leaning over the potted plant, firmly gripping the sides.

Stubborn git.

"It wasn't really a suggestion," Lestrade said. "Honestly, I should just show my kid you two and he would never ask if he could drink again."

"Only had...a few glasses," John insisted weakly.

"I'm sure," Lestrade said sarcastically. "Now get on out of here."

"Let me finish," Sherlock said desperately, standing up again slowly.

"Fine, you can finish," Lestrade said, "but make it quick."

"Thank you." Sherlock said weakly, fumbling his way back over to the body. He cleared his throat. "As I was saying...something went wrong, and instead of his lover meeting him, the killer did."

"How do you know it wasn't the lover who killed him?" Lestrade asked.

"Because-because-" Sherlock began, but couldn't seem to go on any further, clutching his head and groaning.

"Sherlock?"

"_Because_ there's a picture of the woman in his wallet," he said exasperatedly, "though it was hidden behind a wedding picture, with a different woman."

"How does that prove-"

"When did the man die?"

"At about 3:30 am."

"I saw that woman last night around that time," Sherlock said. "I, ah, _interacted_ with her personally."

"You mean you spoke to her?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away, and John began giggling like a madman.

Sherlock was beginning to look very uncomfortable. "Not exactly."

Lestrade glanced back and forth between the two of them. "So, if you didn't speak to her, then what did you do-" He cut off. "You didn't."

Sherlock was turning a very faint shade of red. "I don't know what you mean."

The other officers were watching with great interest, giggling and talking among themselves.

"I can't believe this," Lestrade said. "_You_, of all people, actually had a one night stand-"

"No!" Sherlock interrupted, appalled. "No, I did not! I can't be held responsible for anything that happened last night, but I know I certainly did not-"

"Sherlock's first kiss," John cooed mockingly.

Lestrade laughed. "Really?"

"Make out session may be a more appropriate phrase," John said.

The officers were laughing uproariously now, and Sherlock was turning a deeper shade of red.

"I didn't do anything!" Sherlock insisted. "Obviously, because he's the one I woke up with!" He said indignantly, pointing to John.

John did not find this as amusing as the officers did, his expression changing from mocking to absolutely mortified. "Okay, now that is blowing things way out of proportion-"

"Enough!" Lestrade roared, and everyone fell silent. "Sherlock, can you prove this actually happened?"

"You heard John, didn't you?" Sherlock muttered.

"Forgive me if I can't entirely trust your memories of a night long drunken rampage," Lestrade said sarcastically.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, thinking hard. "Someone took a photo."

"Who?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I just remember seeing a flash."

"You find that photo, and then I'll believe it," said Lestrade, who was still trying to grasp the idea of Sherlock kissing someone, let alone making out with someone. The thought itself was quite disturbing and even a little nauseating. He shook off that thought with a shudder.

"Fine," said Sherlock. He walked over to John. "Come along, John."

"Not so loud," John complained as Sherlock grabbed his wrist and not so gently helped him up, and the two exited the way they came.

**Author's Note: I got this idea a few weeks ago and it was too good to resist-the idea of our boys dealing with the aftermath of an unexpected and unintentional drunken night made me giggle. **

**So I half lied about saying I was returning to ****one shots-I feel like this needs a Part Two, what do you think? (For future reference, all further chapters SHOULD be oneshots, but they may become twoshots if they need to be)**

**I hope you enjoyed and please review! :) **


	13. A Change of Tactic

**Author's Note: Don't worry! I fully intend to write a Part Two for Last Friday Night, but yesterday I was inspired and wrote this ridiculous little story that I wanted to share with you guys. Though it doesn't quite fit the theme, but I suppose the description does say "awkward situations", yes? **

**Enjoy, my friends! **

A Change of Tactic

_That was genius. Bloody genius. -JW_

_Thank you, it was quite brilliant, if I do say so myself. How's our favorite consulting detective handling it?-GL_

_He's sulking over in the corner. -JW_

_He'll get over it. -GL_

John glanced up from his phone over at his flatmate, who was curled up so tightly in his chair he suspected he would have to use a good amount of tools to pry him loose again.

"How you doing, Sherlock?" John asked, grinning.

"Shut up." Sherlock responded, his expression darkening even further.

"Looks like someone needs a-"

"Don't. Say it."

John chuckled to himself, and sent another text to Lestrade- _Don't count on it. -JW_

Earlier that day, Sherlock and John had come home to Lestrade sitting in their flat. Sherlock had withheld evidence once again, and to say the least, the Inspector was not happy.

"Hello, Sherlock," Lestrade had said calmly, lounging lazily across the couch.

"What's this, Lestrade? Another drugs bust? Really, it doesn't suit you to be so predictable," Sherlock sneered. He then looked around, and when he found the flat empty, the sneer disappeared. "Where...where are the rest of your incompetent officers?"

"It's just me this time," Lestrade said coolly, getting to his feet. He walked up to Sherlock, his expression unreadable. "So are you going to tell me where it is?"

"I'm not done with it," Sherlock replied, half perplexed, half irritated.

"You leave me no choice, then," said Lestrade.

"For goodness' sake, I am _clean_-" He cut off when Lestrade did something completely unexpected. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, squeezing him in a tight and unmistakable hug.

John's mouth dropped open in shock, goggling shamelessly at the odd scene in front of him. Sherlock looked horrified, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at this strange and terrifying development. He struggled to get away, but Lestrade just squeezed even tighter, pinning the detective's arms to his side and therefore making it impossible to escape.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded, attempting to appear nonchalant but failing miserably.

Lestrade just snickered, and John laughed aloud in spite of himself.

"Make him let go, John!" Sherlock said desperately, looking to the doctor for help.

"Oh, relax," John replied, a mocking smile spreading across his face. "It's just a hug."

Sherlock's eyes somehow widened even more, looking disgusted. "I don't do _hugs_," he spat.

"Tell me where it is," Lestrade said.

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly, struggling again to break free.

Lestrade responded by pushing harder into Sherlock's chest, and the detective made an odd gurgling noise. "Lestrade, Let. Go!"

"Not until you tell me where it is," Lestrade answered.

"I'm not finished!" Sherlock complained. "I swear, if you don't let me go this instant, I will _never_ help with another case!"

"Liar," Lestrade said simply.

Sherlock was caught. He frowned down at Lestrade's head, his expression murderous. He struggled for a few more seconds, then said rather timidly- "If I tell you, will you let go?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained.

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, then said "yes" into the detective's coat.

Sherlock took a deep, frustrated breath through his nose, then spoke. "Far left cupboard, middle shelf."

"Thank you," Lestrade said brightly, and gave Sherlock another tight squeeze, which made the detective squirm even more. The inspector finally released him, and Sherlock gasped out a sigh of relief, shuddering violently.

Lestrade strode off into the kitchen, and John suddenly burst into giggles, laughing so hard it hurt his stomach.

"Stop _laughing_!" Sherlock commanded, but John didn't listen.

"Thank you very much," said Lestrade, who had returned. "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon." He smirked at Sherlock, flashed a quick grin at John, then exited the flat. Sherlock immediately headed for his chair, while John was still in awe. He had to give Lestrade credit-though a bit unconventional, his "hugs bust" had been more successful than any of his drug busts had ever been. Since the inspector left before John could congratulate him properly, he sent him a text.

Now back in the present, John glanced over at Sherlock again, who still after twenty minutes looked quite disturbed.

_Well, it worked, and that's all I care about. -GL_

_Now that I think about it, the possibilities are endless. Thanks, Greg. -JW_

_No problem. Have fun with him, I have work to do. See you later. -GL_

"Hey, Sherlock?" John said innocently, looking up from his phone.

"Hmm?" Sherlock grunted.

"We need milk. And some beans too, I think."

"Wonderful. Go get some."

"I think it's your turn, though," John said, still feigning innocence.

Sherlock's head snapped up, and John smiled, stretching out his arms to either side. "I feel a hug coming on," he said cheerily, standing up.

"No, no, not you too!" Sherlock protested, springing to his feet as John advanced.

"Come on, don't you want to give your best mate a hug?"

"_No_!" Sherlock moved to the right, backing away in a very desperate fashion towards the kitchen. "No, I certainly do not!"

"Sherlock, please," John mock pouted, his arms still raised.

Sherlock glowered at John before throwing his own arms in the air. "Fine! You win this time, Dr. Watson." He snorted angrily and tossed his head irritably, then went off to find his card.

Satisfied, John lowered his arms, settled back into his chair, and once again mentally thanked Lestrade for his stroke of brilliance.

**Since I will not be able to say this tomorrow because I will be out of town and away from the Internet, I will do it now. Happy Birthday, Benedict darling, you have blessed and ruined my life, you talented, beautiful Cumberbabe you. :) Have a lovely day!**


	14. Something That We're Not

**Hello all! Sorry to keep you waiting for so long...I know I promised you guys Part Two for Last Friday Night, but unfortunately, I lost all inspiration for it after a long, arduous struggle of trying to write it. That doesn't mean there won't ever be one, just if it does, it probably won't be anytime soon, and I apologize for that. **

**Anyways, enjoy!**

Something That We're Not

Needless to say, John was less than happy when Sherlock informed him his current girlfriend was cheating on him.

He couldn't imagine why John had not seen it himself, everything about the woman was fake, her personality, her appearance (especially her nose, which was almost completely plastic-thus earning her the name "the one with the nose", Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember the name of someone that boring), and of course, her relationship status.

"What?" Sherlock asked John after delivering the news and receiving a stunned, disbelieving stare in return. "You didn't like her that much, did you?"

Shaking his head, John simply got up and walked out of the room.

He returned an hour later, informing Sherlock (and quite a bit testily) that he was going to have dinner with her tomorrow and was going to end it.

Good. Perhaps next time he would choose more wisely.

When Sherlock told John this, he earned yet another incredulous stare.

"Oh for goodness' sake, what is it _now_?"

"Timing, Sherlock, _timing_!"

###

"Table for two?" The host asked cheerily as John and Stephanie walked into the small restaurant.

"Yes, thank you," said John.

"Wonderful, Sophie will show you to your table."

John glanced over at Stephanie, who was smiling politely as they followed the waitress. He could hardly believe that she was cheating on him and still was okay with being here, acting like everything was fine when it was really not. She caught him looking, and she grinned, showing off nearly every single one of her whitened teeth. John could only offer a half smile, and perhaps she sensed something was off because her smile faltered and faded.

The waitress sat them down at a table in the middle of the restaurant, and John silently cursed. Yeah, he was angry, absolutely livid about Stephanie, but he wasn't really keen on making this breakup a public affair. The waitress handed them their menus and left, leaving John and Stephanie alone.

They didn't speak for a few awkward moments, then Stephanie piped up.

"Is there something wrong, John?" She asked sweetly.

"Uh…yeah. Actually, we need to talk-"

"Can it wait until we get our food? They have this, you know, mystery entree that I have been dying to try…"

She continued to babble on about the food, and John pretended to listen. She knew what was coming, he could tell, and he decided to humour her for the time being, let her think it was all alright. He politely (though a bit coldly, but she pretended not to notice) engaged with her in mindless conversation until their dinner arrived.

"Oh, wonderful," said Stephanie, and she began to eat as soon as the plate was set down in front of her, as another desperate way to stall what was coming.

John, who didn't really feel all that hungry, just watched her, occasionally taking a few bites of his own. When she finally slowed down enough to take a breath, John tried again. "Stephanie, we need to-"

"You know what, I think I need to go to the loo," Stephanie said, and she made to stand up.

John, who had previously felt a bit amused at her attempts to escape the inevitable, was now feeling quite irritated with the whole thing. "I'm sorry to keep you, but we really need to talk _now_."

Stephanie was about to protest when they were interrupted by a loud, baritone voice that was all too familiar-

"_John Hamish Watson_!"

"Who is that?" Stephanie demanded, all plans of going to the loo forgotten.

John was spared having to answer, because the person in question had noisily pulled up a chair to their table, and was pointing a finger in John's face.

"What are you doing here with _her_?" Sherlock Holmes himself shouted at John. He looked genuinely hurt, and for a moment John wondered if he had missed something earlier. He had specifically told Sherlock he was going out tonight, that he was ending things with Stephanie, but then again, this wouldn't be the first time the detective hadn't listened. "Sorry, what?"

"I said, what are you doing here with her?" Sherlock shouted again. "You told me you were going over to Mike's, but no, you snuck off to go on a_ date_ with some floozy!"

"_Excuse_ me?" Stephanie tried to cut in, but Sherlock waved an impatient hand at her. "Shut up, you." He snapped at her, and then turned back to John expectantly. "Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

John stared up at him, completely baffled."Uh-I'm sorry?"

Sherlock snorted. "Is that all? That's all you have to say after wrecking three beautiful years of the most perfect relationship you've ever had?"

"The most beautiful _what?_" John asked, bewildered.

"You're gay?" Stephanie exclaimed.

"No!" John said immediately, and he glanced quickly at Sherlock. What the devil was he doing?

"You're not?" Sherlock cried, looking distraught.

"Yes! I mean no!" John said, flustered. "Sherlock, what is-_ow_!"

Sherlock had given him a very painful and well aimed kick in the leg, which hurt far more than he cared to admit, but fortunately John understood the meaning behind the action. It was ridiculous, it was insane, but Sherlock Holmes was in his own ludicrous way helping John break up with his girlfriend.

Everyone was looking at them now, peering over the food and their drinks to watch the spectacle going on in the middle of the restaurant, and John felt a slight blush creep onto his cheeks, and he sighed. They were already in too deep to go back now, so might as well play along and milk it for all it was worth.

He gave a quick nod to Sherlock to signal that he understood, and the detective resumed character.

"What about all we have been through?" Sherlock yelled, slamming a hand on the table, making Stephanie jump. "What about all the times I sat with you when you were having your nervous breakdowns and the swine fever! And oh, let not forget about the the time you drove your car into your boss's house after getting completely wasted, and I was the one who paid all the fines and visited you in prison every single week of your miserable two year sentence! I stayed with you through everything, and _this_ is how you repay me?"

"You know I was, uh, only wasted that day because of you!" John shot back, though not as confidently as he would have liked. "You know I only like to have er-six drinks a day-"

"Don't you _dare_ try to blame that on me," Sherlock bellowed. "I was just having my own alcohol when you butted in, how was I supposed to know you were going to take the whole bottle and-"

"I'm sorry," Stephanie said coldly, interrupting what would have been a very long, drawn out rant, "but you're gay and you've been cheating on me?"

"Actually," Sherlock cut in, glowering at Stephanie, "he was cheating on me with you, I was with him first, remember?"

"How could you do this?" Stephanie demanded.

"Sorry," John said with a shrug. "I guess I just couldn't resist his…er-" He looked over the detective, trying to find the least awkward thing he could mention- "-cheekbones?" He cringed at this, but Stephanie was so angry she didn't notice.

"Well!" She snapped, standing up. "The joke's on you, you want to know why?"

"No, can't imagine why," John said sarcastically, but she didn't seem to notice the sarcasm.

"Because I've been seeing Marcus again!" She shouted, sounding oddly triumphant. "There, see!"

"What? You were with Marcus-" His words were cut off by a grunt of pain as Sherlock kicked him again. _Stay in character_, he could practically hear him saying.

John cleared his throat. "Uh-I mean, it doesn't matter-it doesn't even matter because-"

"Because I've decided I forgive you," Sherlock said suddenly.

"What?" John and Stephanie both asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding dramatically. "I've decided that our relationship is worth a second chance, John. Isn't that what you want?" He simpered, his classic puppy dog look coming onto his face.

John had to repress the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock was having too much fun with this. He was about to retort when Stephanie surprised him by speaking up.

"Well! I hope you two are _very_ happy together," she said shortly, getting to her feet. "I guess this is goodbye, John."

"I suppose it is," John replied a bit stiffly, painfully aware of all the eyes watching them.

She made a "hmph!" sound and marched out of the restaurant, pushing past some of the curious bystanders rather roughly.

"Okay," John said, turning to Sherlock. "Shall we-"

"Not yet," Sherlock said quietly. "It's time for my exit."

"What-?"

Without further ado, Sherlock slapped John across the face.

"Three years and this is all I have to show for it?" He shouted, and making a "hmph!" noise rather like the one Stephanie had made, he turned to leave.

John blinked, his cheek still stinging and still shocked from the blow. But...if Sherlock was having fun with it, why couldn't he?

"_Honey_!" He called after Sherlock, adding as much disbelief and incredulity as he could.

Sherlock whirled around, and if every eye in the restaurant wasn't already turned to them, they were now. "Don't you 'honey' me!" He roared, his expression furious. Then John saw his mouth twitch, as if he was trying not to laugh, and he strode out of the restaurant with a final swish of his coat.

###

Sherlock was waiting outside for John, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet and wearing a ridiculous grin.

"What was _that_?" John demanded, and though he was trying to sound angry, it was coming out in a more excited, exhilarated way. Though he had been humiliated, it had been, in a strange way, quite entertaining.

"I thought you might need some help," Sherlock said simply, as if that explained everything. "Taxi!"

"I've broken up with women before, thank you," John said. "I didn't need your help."

"Please, you were letting her take advantage of you," Sherlock responded coolly. "The food, the unnecessary trips to the loo…really, you can do better than that."

"I was waiting for a better moment!" John said defensively.

"So I gave you one," Sherlock said, as a cab drove up alongside them. "And honestly, John, you are always so _insufferable _after you end your relationships, moaning, mooning about and the like. I thought you might be less so if you went about it differently."

"So pretending to be my _boyfriend_ is a better way to break up with someone?" John exclaimed. "And for the record, I do _not_ 'moon about'!" John snapped at Sherlock, who was climbing into the cab.

"Yeah, you do!" Sherlock called back in his irritatingly superior way. John rolled his eyes and shook his head, then joined Sherlock in the cab.

"Oh, John?" Sherlock said a few moments later, as they drove away.

"Yeah?"

"May I just say that I am quite grateful that when you were choosing your career in life, you chose to be a doctor instead of an actor, your acting skills are atrocious-"

John responded by giving the detective a good thump on the head. "Shut up."

"Not likely."

"Ha."

John sat back in his seat, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He still could hardly believe the events of that night. _Sherlock Holmes_ had just helped him break up with his girlfriend. Sure, it was in the worst way he could have done it, but this had to be the first time he walked away from a relationship (especially one like this where he had been cheated on) laughing.

And he had a certain so called sociopathic best friend to thank for that.

**This was inspired by a video on Youtube called "Substitute Breakup" by Studio C. It's hilarious, so if you want to, go check it out. I admit I did take a line from it, but it was too good to resist. The rest of the lines are mine. :) **

**Please do let me know what you thought of this chapter! **


	15. Stupid For You

Stupid For You

"Are you angry?"

"No."

"I think you are-"

"No, I'm not."

John raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. "You're not."

Sherlock frowned and crossed his legs, curling his good arm around the thick cast on his other arm, and burrowed further into the couch. "Of course not. Why would I be angry?" He asked sarcastically into a pillow. "You just let Travers get away and broke my arm, that's all."

"How many times do I need to apologize? It was dark-"

"Yes, yes, I know, I've heard this all before," Sherlock snapped, throwing the pillow to the side. "It was dark and you tripped-"

"I did not trip!"

"-and fell into me, knocking me off course-"

"You could have-"

"-sending me right into the path of that bike! So, to answer your earlier question, yes, I _am_ angry!"

"We both got hit by that bike, and what do you want me to do about it?" John demanded.

"You've made me a laughingstock, John! Lestrade won't shut up about it-"

"What do you want me to do? Go back in time? Maybe you want me to magically fix your arm?"

In response, Sherlock huffed and curled into the couch.

"And you may want to remember that I didn't exactly come off scot free either," John reminded him, gesturing to the large, ugly, and swollen purple bruise on his eye and cheek.

Sherlock simply huffed again, burying his face in a pillow.

John sat back in his chair with an angry huff of his own, tapping fast and hard on his knee. Sherlock had been especially difficult since the, well, _incident_, and though John wouldn't admit it, he could see why. A broken arm was no fun, and paracetamol seemed to be doing nothing for his pain (though things had improved considerably since the first day).

Another thing he would not admit was how guilty he felt, even though it really wasn't his fault. He didn't trip on purpose, and it _had_ been quite dark in that alleyway, after all, dark enough that he still had no idea what had sent him sprawling. And why the devil was anyone riding a bike at night, anyways?

In the end, it had made for a quite embarrassing incident, John fell right into the detective, and both of them went crashing into the path of the biker, while the man they were chasing, Travers, had gotten away. Sherlock had gotten the worst of it, obviously, with his broken arm (and assortment of rather bad scrapes and bruises), and John escaped with only a black eye and a very mild concussion. In his defense, though, it was a rather nasty and painful black eye.

Sherlock did not react at all well, as was expected, shouting and yelling at John with his face white and pinched with pain, bracing his hurt arm against his chest. It didn't help that the biker had stopped, coming to see if they were alright (thanks to his helmet, the biker suffered only a few scrapes) and Sherlock began yelling at him too. It was a both a sad and comical sight to see the great Sherlock Holmes let pain and anger get the best of him, sprawled on the pavement and nearly having what seemed like a breakdown.

After John finally convinced Sherlock to quit shouting, he was able to help him sit up and do what he could with Sherlock's arm whilst the biker called an ambulance. By the time the ambulance arrived, Sherlock had long been subdued due to the pain, hunched over into John's chest.

When they came back from the hospital, Sherlock had been insistent on tracking down Travers, but unfortunately for the detective Lestrade cut him off until "further notice". Sherlock was absolutely furious about this, but John couldn't help but agree. Sherlock needed his rest, and for once, he was going to have it. It took some doing, but John eventually got the detective to slow down and rest. Of course, this didn't mean Sherlock wasn't able to find ways to be insufferable about the whole thing-and making John feel guilty was one of them. It had been about a week since the incident and Sherlock was close to losing his mind from boredom.

John got up from his chair, and went to go get Sherlock some paracetamol. The sulky detective accepted the medicine a bit grudgingly, and after swallowing them went back to burrowing into the couch. It was quiet for the next hour, because miracle of all miracles, Sherlock fell asleep, curled into a fetal position. John threw a blanket over him and went back to his armchair to read.

It was almost completely silent in the flat for a good while, before the serenity of the hour was shattered by the shrill ring of Sherlock's phone.

The detective was up like a shot, throwing the blanket to the side. "Where's my phone?" He shouted, springing up from the couch, the empty dressing gown sleeve flopping uselessly at his side as he searched frantically for his phone.

As Sherlock rushed about, John realized the ringing was coming from under his chair. Shaking his head, he knelt down and picked it up. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Sherlock, I have-"

"John, I'm trying to find-"

John rolled his eyes. "I have your phone, here."

Sherlock was at his side in moments, and John, chuckling to himself, handed the detective the phone.

"Sherlock…Holmes," Sherlock panted into the phone. "Yes…yes, I'm fine, Lestrade, I'm perfectly capable-" He listened for a moment. "Yes. Alright. _Alright_." He growled into the phone.

John smiled to himself, Sherlock sounded rather like a child who was being scolded.

After a few more moments, Sherlock gave a gruff "Goodbye" and hung up. "Finally!" Sherlock cried, and he hurried off to go get dressed.

It was quite a thing to watch, seeing Sherlock try to get ready to go to a crime scene with only one arm. He obviously had no trouble with his trousers, for the next minute he was out of his room with his nice trousers on, but his shirt was another matter. He was able to get it on (mostly) but he was having a fair amount of trouble with the buttons, his fingers fumbling in his attempt to button with one hand.

"You need help?" John offered after a long minute of watching him struggle.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. "I just need a minute."

After about another minute and a half, Sherlock had managed about one and a half buttons, and John let out a frustrated sigh. "Sherlock-"

"I said, I'm fine," Sherlock said roughly.

"Fine," John said, holding up his hands. "Go on, I'll wait for you at the door." He nodded to the frustrated Sherlock, walked over to the door and leaned on the doorjamb, folding his arms. And he waited.

It took about three minutes before Sherlock finally gave in, asking simultaneously grumpily and sheepishly for help.

John rolled his eyes and went back over to him, and though it was a bit awkward and embarrassing for both of them, helped him with the buttons, guiding the buttons to detective's fingers so he could do them up. After they were finished with the buttons, Sherlock gave a grudging "thank you" and went to go get his coat, and after shrugging his coat on, they were left with his final obstacle-his scarf.

Sherlock and John both looked at the scarf in the detective's hand, then at each other.

"I can do it," Sherlock said irritably. "You've done enough…it's because of you that I'm in this position in the first place."

"Fine," John snapped back, stung. "I don't need to apologize to you again. Go on, go ahead and see how far you get with one arm."

Sherlock glared at John, then began his first attempt at tying his scarf. Sherlock and John were stubborn this time-ten minutes passed and neither man was showing any signs of giving in.

_Ding_.

"Was that your phone?" John asked.

"I can get it in a minute," Sherlock puffed as he tried for the thousandth time to toss his scarf around his neck. His face was turning pink from the exertion, and kept wincing whenever the process jostled his hurt arm.

Five minutes later, after two more text messages (and John was trying as hard as he could not to laugh), Sherlock seemed to have had enough, swearing loudly. "This is all your fault!" He roared. "Why did you have to trip and ruin everything?"

"_I_ ruined everything?" John asked, all mirth gone. "_You_ should have warned me that there was something to trip over!"

"Oh, you need babysitting now?" Sherlock shot back. "I'll be sure to warn you of every little obstacle next time, forgive me for forgetting, I won't make that mistake again!"

"It would have been nice to have some warning!" John insisted.

"How was I supposed to know you weren't watching?"

"How was I supposed to know that I was going to trip? I didn't mean to, Sherlock, for the last time, so stop treating it like I did this to you on purpose! You don't think that I don't feel guilty about this? Well, I do!" John yelled, throwing his hands into the air. "There! I said it. Will you quit hating me now?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted back. "Maybe I will when my arm heals! ….Where are you going?"

"To the crime scene," John said. "Lestrade was expecting us about twenty minutes ago now…I thought I'd get a head start and let him know you'll be coming….well, later. Since you're busy getting your scarf on, you know." John made to turn for the door.

"You can't go without me," Sherlock protested.

"I'm sure you'll catch up," John said casually. "You've obviously got a handle on this situation."

John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he could just imagine the livid expression the detective was wearing. Sherlock continued to sputter angrily as John pulled on his coat. John ignored him, and finally went for the doorknob.

"Don't you leave!" Sherlock shouted. John ignored this and turned the doorknob. Sherlock swore. "John, for goodness sake, will you just get back here and _help me tie my scarf_?" He roared. The volume of his shout surprised both him and John, who whirled around at this unexpected outburst.

They stared at each other for a moment, then John removed his hand from the doorknob. "…Okay."

"_Thank_ you," Sherlock said irritably, but he actually looked somewhat relieved as John walked up to him.

John felt an odd mixture of triumph and embarrassment as Sherlock handed him the scarf. He finally got the detective to admit that he needed help-but now John had to pay the price. He looped the scarf around Sherlock's neck, which was awkward enough as it was, but then came the worst part-tying it. Sherlock was very particular about the way his scarf was tied, and John had only a vague idea on how he did it. This resulted in an almost painful few minutes of hasty, angry instructions, then silence as the detective waited.

"Not like that-"

"I _know_, I'm fixing it-"

Suddenly they heard the bang of the door opening and an incredulous voice. "You've kept me waiting this long for _this_?"

John and Sherlock froze, turning to see the Detective Inspector Lestrade himself at the door. "I thought I'd come to fetch you," Lestrade said, looking a strange mixture of uncomfortable and irritated, "but since you seem to be too busy-"

"We're coming, just give us a moment," John replied curtly.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock added.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Give you a moment?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you not understand English as well as detective work now?"

Lestrade held up his hands. "Fine, I'll leave-just try to be quick, won't you?"

A moment later, the detective inspector was gone, and they were alone again.

"Hurry up," Sherlock demanded suddenly.

John chose not to respond to this and continued with the scarf. Sherlock, seeming to be surprised by this, was silent.

"I don't hate you." Sherlock said after a few moments.

"Hmm?" John asked distractedly.

"I said, I don't hate you," Sherlock repeated, a little louder.

John stopped, shocked, scrutinizing Sherlock's earnest, innocent expression. "Oh…okay. Well, I don't hate you either." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finished the knot and stepped back. "There." He said, satisfied. "Are you ready now, or is there something else?"

"My shoes," Sherlock said after a moment's consideration.

John threw his hands up into the air. "Oh my g-okay. Okay. Where are they? Put them on, then!"

John waited while Sherlock went for his shoes, and after about three more minutes they were out the door (John would never, not even under torture, that he had bent down and tied the detective's shoes).

They headed down the stairs and out to the street, then John hailed a cab. As the cab drove up to them, Sherlock spoke. "I am sorry," he said seriously. "I do know that you never intended to-"

"Okay, stop," John said. "Now you're just getting sentimental."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "I am?"

"Extremely," John replied. "For you, anyways."

They climbed into the cab and Sherlock gave the cabbie the address, and as they drove away, John spoke. "I'll accept your apology as long as you accept mine. Let's just be done with the whole business, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock agreed. "You're right."

"Of course I am," John replied.

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Sherlock piped up.

"How's your face?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his own eye.

"Fine," John answered after a stunned hesitation. "And your arm?"

"Fine," Sherlock parroted back, a half smile appearing on his face. "Absolutely fine."

**Author's Note: Oh, my boys! I love them...and you already know what I'm going to say-please review and let me know what you think! :)**


	16. The Milk

**Hello! Here's just a short and sweet chapter for you all. It wasn't at all planned, I was texting back and forth with my sister today and this was the result. Of course, it's all about our boys' favorite drink. Hope you enjoy! **

The Milk

We need milk.  
SH

_Get it yourself. Heaven knows you could do with some fresh air.  
__JW_

I don't need fresh air. I need milk. It's not like you're doing anything important anyway.  
SH

_I can't, I am at work-you know, the place where the rest of us pathetic earthlings make money to buy things like milk.  
__JW_

Whether or not your "work" is important is irrelevant to this conversation. I NEED MILK. And, I also need you to pick something up from Molly.  
SH

_For the last time, NO. Get off the couch and do it yourself! Or ask Molly to, I'm sure she'd be happy to drop everything and help you.  
__JW_

I am in the middle of an experiment, and it might explode if I don't have milk. And I already asked Molly to bring it. She became very angry with me for some reason.  
SH

_I wonder why! And why do you need the milk for an experiment?  
__JW_

You wouldn't understand.  
SH

_Try me.  
__JW_

I just need it. Stop asking inane questions.  
SH

_I AM NOT GETTING YOU MILK AND THAT IS FINAL. I AM AT WORK.  
__JW_

FINE. Why don't you sleep at the surgery tonight, since it is so important to you.  
SH

_Maybe I will! At least here I'll actually get a full night's sleep for once! MAYBE I'LL JUST LIVE HERE.  
__JW_

Fine! Go ahead, you obviously care more about the sniveling idiots at the surgery.  
SH

_Yeah, I do care more about those 'sniveling idiots' because they actually appreciate what I do instead of treating me like their errand boy!  
__JW_

They don't care about you, you're easily replaced. And I was simply asking you for help, I don't need an errand boy.  
SH

_...THAT'S IT. I'M MOVING OUT.  
__JW_

Just try it. You will be crawling back in a matter of days.  
SH

_Me? You're going to be on your knees begging for me to come back. Who is going to get your precious milk? Who is going to put up with you and all your crazy requests?  
__JW_

I won't even notice you're gone.  
SH

_You'll never be able to replace me.  
__JW_

I won't need to. There is nothing to replace.  
SH

_I'm going to be the happiest man alive without you!  
__JW_

_..._

FINE. I JUST NEEDED THE MILK TO DRINK, ALRIGHT?  
SH

_YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT. AND I AM STILL MOVING OUT.  
__JW_

Your bedroom door is locked. Good luck getting your things.  
SH

_Oh no! Oh waaait, I have my key.  
__JW_

I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'RE ANGRY.  
SH

_BECAUSE-Never mind. You wouldn't understand.  
__JW_

Try me.  
SH

_Okay fine! I am your friend, and you treat me like I'm your mother!  
__JW_

That's ridiculous. I despise my mother.  
SH

_What I mean is that you treat me like my only purpose in life is to pick up after you and pick up your groceries! I am not your servant!  
__JW_

I don't mean to treat you like a servant. To my knowledge, I thought friends ask each other for assistance.  
SH

_They do, Sherlock! But sometimes, you just go over the line.  
__JW_

I am sorry. I will ask someone else for assistance.  
SH

_Dang it, Sherlock! You can still ask me for help! You just need to know your limits!  
__JW_

_..Thank you for apologizing.  
__JW_

You're welcome. I suppose. I can pick up the milk later.  
SH

_No, I can do it-I'm leaving work early.  
__JW_

You don't have to, I am perfectly capable. Why are you leaving work early?  
SH

_I have to talk to someone. In person. I believe I owe them an apology.  
__JW_

Who could you possibly have to talk to?  
SH

_You, you bloody idiot.  
__JW_

Oh. Yes. Alright.  
SH

_What, you surprised?  
__JW_

No, of course not. Never.  
SH

_Good. I'll pick up the milk and then I'll come home.  
__JW_

Fine.  
SH

_Is there anything else you need while I'm here?  
__JW_

Are you going to drop by the lab? I still need those things from Molly.  
SH

_And what exactly are these 'things'? If it is another human body part you are on your own.  
__JW_

_It's…not another body part, is it?  
__JW_

No.  
SH

_Okay, then I guess I can go pick it up. Since I'm already out.  
__JW_

Good. Thank you. You don't mind giant tarantulas, do you?  
SH

_I'm sorry, what?  
__JW_

You know exactly what I said, John. You just read it.  
SH

_I am not picking up a giant dead tarantula. You are on your own with that one. I'm coming home.  
JW_

John! But this actually IS important for my experiment!  
SH

Okay, please.  
SH

Please, will you go pick up the tarantula.  
SH

JOHN!  
SH

**Review, if you please! :) **


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